THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  BALLINGTONS 


THE 

BALLINGTONS 

A    NOVEL 


BY 
FRANCES    SQUIRE 


BOSTON 
LITTLE,    BROWN,    AND   COMPANY 

1905 


COPYRIGHT,  1905, 

BY 
LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  COMPANY. 

All  Rights  Reserved 
Published  October,  1905 


ELECTHOTYPED   BY  THE  HERALD  COMPANY  OF   BINGHAMTON, 

BINGHAMTON,    N.    Y. 

PRINTED   BY   THE  UNIVERSITY   PRESS,   CAMBRIDGE, 
U.  8.  A. 


TO 
MARY  GRAY  PECK 


THE   BALLINGTONS 


PART  I 


CHAPTER  I 

A  GIRL  went  up  to  the  piano  and  stood  half -turned  toward 
**  the  group  of  guests  in  Mrs.  Ballington's  drawing-room 
while  an  accompaniest  played  through  the  prelude  of  a  Rubin 
stein  song.  The  girl  was  dressed  in  white,  with  no  ornament 
except  an  old-fashioned  Roman  sash;  but  she  stood  very 
straight,  and  her  hair  had  a  rebellious  wave  that  showed  fire 
under  the  brown,  and  her  neck  and  arms  were  like  flushed 
marble.  Presently  she  turned  toward  the  listeners  and  began 
to  sing.  Her  voice  had  the  sweep  and  vibration  of  a  'cello 
and  she  used  it  daringly.  As  she  sang  she  seemed  to  expand 
from  a  fledgling  college  girl  into  some  elemental  spirit,  the 
grandeur  of  whose  passion  awed  while  it  thrilled  the  listeners. 

"  Charming ! "  Mrs.  Ballington  said,  with  a  sour  look 
through  her  lorgnette  at  the  wandering  lights  in  the  girl's 
dark  eyes.  She  had  been  chagrined  for  weeks  past  at  her  son 
Donald's  devotion  to  this  country  doctor's  daughter.  Her 
chagrin  flamed  into  exasperation  at  the  girl's  unembarrassed 
flaunting  of  herself — such  was  Mrs.  Ballington's  phrase — 
in  the  Ballington  parlor  as  though  it  already  belonged  to  her. 

Donald  did  not  speak,  but  Agnes  Sidney  caught  the  look 
of  adoration  in  his  eyes  as  she  left  the  piano  and  went  over 
to  his  younger  brother  Tom.  Tom  withdrew  his  elbows  from 
his  knees  and  looked  up  from  the  floor.  "  No,  you  don't  get 
me  to  sing  any  coon  song  or  play  the  banjo! "  he  said  briefly. 
Agnes  came  to  a  stop  and  began  to  laugh. 


2  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"  I  don't  want  to  talk,  either.  I  want  to  be  impolite  and 
still,"  he  went  on  severely.  "  You  ought  to  want  to  be  still, 
too,  after  singing  like  that." 

Another  college  girl,  who  had  come  with  Agnes,  at  this 
moment  joined  them.  It  was  her  first  opportunity  to  escape 
from  perfunctory  conversation  with  the  third  man  of  the  Bal- 
lington  family. 

As  she  drew  Agnes  down  beside  her  on  the  lounge  near 
Tom's  chair,  the  light  from  the  chandelier  fell  upon  her  heavy 
hair,  changing  it  from  brown  to  bronze.  Her  face  was  not 
beautiful,  but  it  had  a  power  and  a  kind  of  sardonic  sweetness 
which  compensated  for  beauty.  A  pair  of  straight  black 
brows  marked  her  face,  and  impenetrable  gray  eyes  looked 
out  from  beneath  them.  Miriam  Cass  was  five  years  older 
than  Agnes  and  was  as  well-known  in  the  scientific  and  art 
life  of  Winston  College  as  was  Agnes  in  its  social  life. 

"  Then  will  you  play  your  flute  for  us  ?  "  said  Agnes. 
"  That  was  what  I  was  going  to  ask  you." 

Tom  moved  impatiently,  whereupon  the  newcomer  inter 
posed,  smiling,  "  Mr.  Ballington  thinks  the  flute  is  too  pre 
cise  and  soulless  an  instrument  after  your  Rubinstein,  Agnes." 

Tom  looked  up  with  a  return  of  his  natural  good  humor. 
"Precise?"  he  exclaimed.  "You  never  heard  me  play! 
Soulless,  is  it?  "  He  paused  and  looked  across  the  room  at 
the  man  who  was  sitting  imperturbably  where  Miriam  had 
left  him.  "  Ferd !  You're  the  man  to  play  the  flute.  It  shall 
be  my  Christmas  present  to  you." 

Agnes  sat  up  eagerly,  glad  of  an  excuse  to  look  at  the  man 
of  whom  she  had  been  thinking  while  she  sang.  He,  too,  was 
looking  at  her,  as  it  chanced.  The  flush  of  her  face  and  neck 
deepened  as  their  glances  crossed. 

Ferdinand  Ballington  rose  at  once.  Agnes  noted  afresh, 
as  she  watched  his  leisurely  approach,  how  he  differed  in 
looks  from  his  cousins,  Donald  and  Tom.  Ferdinand's  eyes 
were  blue,  but,  unlike  the  mild  Ballington  eye,  bright  and  in 
tense.  His  brows  and  lashes  were  dark  and  there  was  a  cold 
steadfastness  in  his  regard. 


THE     BALLINGTONS  3 

"  Are  you  going  to  let  them  call  you  soulless,  Mr.  Balling- 
ton?  "  said  Agnes,  as  soon  as  he  reached  her  side. 

"  I  have  begun  to  think  that  I  have  a  soul,"  Ferdinand 
answered  quietly. 

Agnes  felt  a  tingle  of  excitement  as  she  asked  with  a  half- 
smile,  "  Why  haven't  you  talked  to  me  before  this  evening?  " 

"  I  have  been  waiting  to  do  so  ever  since  I  saw  you.  I 
saw  you  the  moment  you  entered  the  room." 

"  Well,"  replied  the  girl,  arching  her  brows,  "  I  saw  you 
while  I  was  singing  and  I  wondered  if  you  liked  the  song. 
You  kept  so  still." 

He  made  no  reply. 

She  was  embarrassed  at  his  silence  and  nervously  pressed 
the  inquiry,  "  Did  you  like  the  song  ?  " 

"  I  would  listen  as  long  as  you  could  sing.  There  is  a  spell 
about  you." 

Agnes  was  oppressed  by  the  unvarying  gaze  of  her  com 
panion's  eyes.  "  I  would  be  glad  if  I  could  bring  out  the 
spell  that  is  in  great  music.  I  wish  I  were  great  enough  to 
do  it,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  dignity  in  her  way  of  receiving  the  compli 
ment  which  checked  him.  He  considered  a  moment,  then  drew 
a  chair  near  her  and  sat  down,  beginning  in  a  less  personal 
tone  to  question  her  about  her  musical  studies.  They  soon 
passed  to  other  subjects  and  only  the  girl's  heightened  color 
and  eager  attention  intimated  that  she  was  peculiarly  in 
terested  in  her  new  companion. 

A  kindred  interest  would  have  explained  Tom's  brighten 
ing  up  as  he  found  himself  with  Miriam  Cass. 

Presently  Miriam  withdrew  her  arm  gently  from  Agnes 
and  turned  entirely  to  Tom.  "  You  don't  want  to  talk,"  she 
said  humorously,  "  so  I  am  going  to  look  at  these  photo 
graphs." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  do,  now !  "  Tom  answered  frankly. 

Miriam's  hands  were  already  upon  the  basket  of  photo 
graphs,  which  she  lifted  from  the  table  near  by  and  placed 
upon  her  knees. 


4  THE     BALLINGTONS 

"  You  won't  be  interested  in  these,"  volunteered  Tom. 
"  They  are  mostly  our  relations  and  the  hideous  houses  they 
lived  in  and  their  funeral  flowers." 

Miriam  laughed  and  began  taking  them  out  carelessly. 

Tom  stopped  her  suddenly.  "Wait  a  minute.  That  one 
is  worth  looking  at.  It  is  Uncle  Tom's  old  farmhouse.  I 
was  named  for  him.  That  was  the  finest  old  place  between 
here  and  Albany.  Ferdinand  owns  it  now."  He  leaned 
over  and  pointed  at  the  picture,  lowering  his  voice  confi 
dentially.  "  You  see  that  beautiful  avenue  of  cedars,  winding 
up  to  the  house?  You  couldn't  have  duplicated  that  any 
where.  Oh,  well —"  he  broke  off.  "  Let's  look  at  the  next 

one." 

Miriam,  however,  continued  to  study  the  picture,  and  Tom 
impatiently  picked  up  another  from  the  heap.  He  glanced 
at  it  and  flung  it  back  into  the  basket. 

The  action  aroused  Miriam  and  she  innocently  took  it  up 
and  looked  at  it  carefully.  "  Who  is  this  ?  " 

"  Old  General  Mott,"  Tom  replied  shortly. 

Agnes  caught  the  name  and  turned  toward  them. 

"  Beatrice  Mott's  father ! "  she  exclaimed ;  "  I  want  to 
see  it." 

Her  energy  made  the  group  who  had  petrified  around  Mrs. 
Ballington  near  the  piano  look  across  the  room.  Agnes  was 
studying  the  picture.  "  Does  his  daughter  look  like  him  ?  " 

"Very  much,"  said  Ferdinand.  Then  he  asked  with  in 
terest,  "  Is  Fred  Sidney  any  relation  of  yours  ?  " 

Agnes  looked  up.  "  Yes.  He  is  my  cousin.  I've  been  very 
anxious  to  see  the  Matts  ever  since  Fred  and  Beatrice  were 
engaged.  Their  engagement  was  so  sudden " 

An  embarrassed  pause  followed  the  words,  and  Tom's  face 
hardened. 

Without  looking  at  him,  Agnes  dropped  her  eyes  again  to 
the  picture  in  her  hand.  It  was  the  likeness  of  a  burly,  bold- 
featured  man  with  lines  of  laughter  about  eyes  and  mouth, 
a  determined  chin,  and  an  expression  of  vigor  and  content 
ment.  He  wore  a  military  uniform. 


THE     BALLINGTONS  5 

To  relieve  the  constraint  which  General  Mott's  photograph 
had  produced,  Miriam  held  up  the  picture  of  the  Ballington 
farm.  "  You  have  a  beautiful  home,  Mr.  Ballington,"  she 
said  to  Ferdinand. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied.  "  I  think  a  good  deal  of  it.  I  intend 
to  make  a  fine  place  of  it  in  time." 

Tom  was  called  away  during  Ferdinand's  remark  to  sum 
mon  the  carriage  for  one  of  the  guests,  and  when  he  came 
back  he  found  that  the  Ipave-taking  had  become  general. 
With  some  relief  he  noticed  that,  at  last,  Agnes  and  Donald 
were  together.  He  knew  that  Donald  had  planned  the  whole 
evening  with  reference  to  her  coming,  and  he  had  wondered 
why  his  brother  had  not  taken  advantage  of  his  opportunity. 
Agnes  was  saying  good-night  to  Mrs.  Ballington,  who  re 
sponded  with  grudging  civility.  Miriam  was  already  in  the 
doorway.  Tom  caught  up  his  hat  and  joined  her,  divining 
that  Donald  had  looked  forward  to  an  uninterrupted  conver 
sation  with  Agnes  as  he  accompanied  her  back  to  the  college. 
Miriam  walked  rapidly  and  she  and  Tom  were  soon  well  in 
advance  of  Donald  and  Agnes. 

As  the  latter  went  down  the  path  Donald  at  length  broke 
silence  in  an  unnatural  voice.  "  Are  you  really  going  to 
morrow?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Agnes.  "  I  have  stayed  over  two  days,  now, 
and  I  must  go  home." 

"  Could  you  not  make  your  home  here?  "  he  asked  very 
low. 

It  had  come  sooner  than  she  expected.  She  did  not  reply. 
They  reached  the  end  of  the  linden  walk.  Here  Agnes 
stopped,  and,  partly  to  regain  her  composure,  turned  for  a 
last  look  at  the  house.  She  saw  Ferdinand  Ballington  stand 
ing  alone  on  the  piazza,  looking  after  them.  Perhaps  he  saw 
her  stop  and  look  back,  for  he  turned  immediately  and  went 
into  the  house. 

"  Don't  you  understand  me? "  said  Donald  earnestly. 
"Will  you  be  my  wife?" 

It  was  her  first  proposal,  and  a  direct  one.     Agnes  in- 


6  THE     BALLINGTONS 

stinctively  quickened  her  step  to  catch  up  with  her  compan 
ions.  There  was  a  longer  pause.  She  heard  Tom's  laugh  on 
ahead,  and  was  soon  near  enough  to  see  the  responsive 
humor  in  Miriam's  face  as  it  was  raised  to  his.  It  was  a 
relief  to  hear  their  words  distinctly. 

"  How  could  you  expect  your  mother  to  tolerate  Ben- 
venuto  Cellini  ?  "  Miriam  was  saying. 

Agnes  brought  her  mind  away  from  Tom's  enthusiastic 
visions  of  statues  in  bronze  and  salt-cellars  in  gold,  to 
answer  her  lover.  "  Donald,"  she  said  at  length,  struggling 
to  utter  what  was  plain  to  herself,  "  I'll  tell  you  how  it  is. 
I  know  I  must  marry  some  time,  but  I  can't  bear  to  think 
about  it  yet.  I  want  to  be  free."  She  opened  her  hands  with 
a  sudden  gesture  of  wings. 

"  Love  doesn't  make  slaves — true  love,"  said  Donald. 

"  Yes,  it  does !  "  She  was  started  now,  and  ran  on  glibly, 
half  in  earnest,  but  with  the  growing  dramatic  instinct.  "  It 
does.  At  least  for  a  woman.  A  woman  gives  up  so  much  for 
the  man  she  marries:  her  name,  her  individuality,  all  her 
chance  of  personal  ambition,  her  health  often,  and  sometimes 
her  life." 

She  stopped,  artistically  elated  with  her  speech.  She  could 
not  conceive  of  herself  without  health,  and  she  certainly  did 
not  intend  to  give  up  her  life  for  anyone. 

"  Yes,"  said  Donald,  with  solemnity  in  his  voice.  The  one 
word  awed  her. 

"  But  I  will  confess,"  she  went  on,  after  a  moment,  "  there 
are  times  when  I  think  I  should  like  to  marry  now.  You 
know  what  my  home  is,  how  hard  papa  works  and  how  shut- 
up  mamma  is.  As  your  wife — of  course  I  can't  be  oblivious 
of  it — I  won't  deceive  you,  that's  one  thing  I  won't  do! — it 
would  give  me  an  opportunity " 

He  interrupted  her,  anticipating.  "  You  should  do  for 
your  parents  whatever  you  might  wish,"  he  said  seriously. 
"  I  can  understand  the  desire,  and  it  would  be  my  happiness 
and  my  honor  to  gratify  it." 

Agnes  was  silent  in  acute  mortification.    She  was  ashamed, 


THE     BALLINGTONS  7 

for  she  saw  that  he  had  put  a  generous  interpretation  to  her 
words.  She  had  been  thinking  only  of  herself. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  I  went  up  to  Kent  and  called  upon  your  parents  a  fort 
night  ago,"  continued  Donald.  "  I  went  there  on  purpose 
to  give  them  an  opportunity  to  see  me.  I  was  tempted  to 
speak  to  your  father  of  this  matter,  but  I  thought  I  ought 
to  ask  your  permission  first.  Oh,  Agnes !  "  He  choked  and 
stopped.  After  a  minute  he  resumed  again.  "  Think  what 
our  life  together  might  be !  If  God  would  give  me  this  bless 
ing,  my  cup  would  run  over.  Everything  else  I  have.  There 
are  the  ten  talents.  Oh,  my  dear  girl,  help  me  to  make  them 
the  twenty ! " 

As  she  still  remained  silent,  he  spoke  again.  "  I  feel  free 
to  say  your  father  liked  me.  I  went  to  church  with  him 
and  had  supper  at  your  good  home.  If  you  had  been  there 
my  heart  would  have  been  full.  I  know  I  am  not  clever,  but 
I  would  be  content  to  have  you  so.  Just  let  me  love  you !  We 
would  grow  nearer  each  other  as  the  years  went  on." 

Still  Agnes  said  nothing.  Her  sensations  were  confusing. 
This  was  not  the  wooing  of  which  she  had  read  and 
dreamed — this  solemn  talking  about  God  and  the  church. 
Yet  she  felt  the  kindliness  of  his  reference  to  her  home  and 
her  parents,  and  a  transient  tenderness  made  her  exclaim 
with  sudden  shame,  "  You  are  too  good  for  me !  You  deserve 
a  good  woman." 

He  caught  her  hand  which  hung  by  her  side.  "  Oh,  Agnes ! 
What  better  woman  could  I  ever  find?  Say  'yes'  to  me, 
dear.  Do  say  '  yes.'  " 

"  Will  you  let  me  wait  a  little?  "  she  asked,  feeling  repug 
nance  to  pledging  herself,  yet  rebelling  against  the  return 
to  her  village  life  without  some  chance  of  escape. 

"  Take  as  much  time  as  you  wish,"  he  answered.  *'  God 
forbid  that  I  should  hurry  you.  But  you  will  write  to  me, 
will  you  not?  " 

"  Yes,  I  will  write." 

Then  he  allowed  her  to  change  the  subject.     When  they 


8  THE    BALLINGTONS 

reached  the  college  grounds  they  found  Tom  and  Miriam 
waiting  for  them  at  the  gate,  and  they  all  walked  up  the 
long  path  together. 

"  I  used  to  wonder  what  was  inside  this  place  when  I  was 
a  boy,"  remarked  Tom,  as  they  neared  the  steps.  "  I  asked 
my  Uncle  Tom  once,  and  he  said  it  was  a  deer  park.  So  it  is," 
he  added,  turning  a  frank  smile  upon  the  two  girls. 

Miriam  laughed,  but  Agnes  scarcely  heard  the  sally. 
Neither  did  she  hear  Tom  explaining  to  Miriam  that  "  Uncle 
Tom  "  was  Ferdinand  Ballington's  father,  though  not  a  soul 
would  know  it. 

After  the  good-nights  were  said,  Agnes  and  Miriam  hur 
ried  through  the  dimly-lighted  halls  of  the  dormitory.  Trunks 
were  standing  by  certain  doorways,  but  the  corridors  were 
deserted.  Miriam's  room  was  the  first  one  they  reached. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  ?  "  she  asked,  inserting  the  key  and 
throwing  open  the  door. 

Agnes  entered  and  walked  over  to  the  open  window.  Miriam 
lighted  the  gas.  "  Fraulein  is  awake  still,"  Agnes  said  as 
the  sound  of  a  brilliant  run  in  sixths  came  over  from  Music 
Hall. 

After  a  moment  she  turned  and  glanced  around  the  room. 
It  was  stripped  of  all  its  ornaments  except  Miriam's  finished 
and  unfinished  models  in  clay  which  stood  or  lay  along  the 
,  top  of  the  long  bookshelves.  As  Agnes  looked  them  over, 
Miriam  regarded  her  with  pleasure.  She  let  her  eyes  pass 
from  the  well-poised  head  down  the  figure,  noting  the  girl's 
pose.  There  was  a  glint  of  good-natured  satire  in  her 
expression  as  she  said  finally,  "  Well,  which  one  of  the  Bal- 
lington  company  do  you  think  the  most  interesting?  I  select 
the  dowager." 

Then,  with  a  deepening  amusement  at  the  puzzled  look 
Agnes  gave  her  in  reply,  Miriam  went  on :  "  How  much 
longer  do  you  suppose  she  went  on  talking  about  Mrs.  Morti 
mer  Tompkins'  Napoleonic  bedquilt  after  we  left  her? 
Wherever  do  you  suppose  Tom  Ballington  got  his  good- 
humor  from,  and  his  taste?  " 


THE    BALLINGTONS  9 

"  His  taste  is  making  the  family  a  good  deal  of  trouble," 
commented  Agnes ;  "  when  he  is  supposed  to  be  attending  to 
business,  as  often  as  not  he  is  down  at  the  library  poring 
over  books  on  metal  work.  He  has  a  private  collection  of 
outlandish  things  that  have  cost  him  a  good  deal  more  money 
than  he  ever  has  made." 

"  It's  a  strange  thing,"  said  Miriam  in  reply,  "  that  con 
scientious  men  like  Donald  Ballington,  utterly  regardless  of 
centuries  of  warning  examples,  keep  on  trying  to  make  pigs' 
tails  out  of  whistles.  He'll  be  sorry  some  day  that  he 
doesn't  let  his  brother  do  what  he  is  born  to  do." 

Agnes  laughed.  "  Tom  does  pretty  much  as  he  wants  to. 
He  isn't  the  martyr  in  that  family.  From  what  I  hear, 
he  and  Beatrice  Mott  made  a  record  for  gayety  in  this 
city." 

Then  her  expression  sobered.  "  I  hurt  Tom's  feelings  to 
night,"  she  continued  regretfully.  "  I  oughtn't  to  have 
mentioned  Fred's  engagement  to  Miss  Mott.  There  was  an 
old  love-affair  between  her  and  Tom.  Did  you  notice  him 
while  we  were  speaking  of  her?  " 

"  No."  The  monosyllable  was  accompanied  with  a  remi 
niscent  look.  Miriam  added,  "  I  was  struck  with  Ferdinand 
Ballington's  expression.  Evidently  he  doesn't  like  Miss 
Mott." 

"  Ferdinand  Ballington  ?  "  Agnes  spoke  with  quick  sur 
prise. 

"  Do  you  know,"  Miriam  continued  reflectively,  "  I  believe 
his  old  homestead  is  the  place  with  the  clipped  trees — 
out  by  the  lake.  You  wouldn't  recognize  it  from  the  old 
picture." 

"  And  he  says  he's  only  begun  the  improvements  he  in 
tends,"  Agnes  returned  with  animation.  "  He  told  me  quite 
a  bit  about  it,  and  how  he  and  little  Miss  Margaret  Balling- 
ton  live  out  there  all  alone." 

"  Why  do  you  like  Ferdinand  Ballington  ?  "  asked  Miriam, 
gravely. 

Agnes  flushed.    "  Do  I?  "  she  said  tentatively. 


10  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"Yes.  See  here,  Agnes," — Miriam  touched  her  friend's 
arm  with  unusual  initiative — "  he  is  a  selfish  man.  A  mate  on 
one  of  my  father's  vessels  had  eyes  like  his.  He  stood  by  and 
saw  a  man  drown  once  and  said  afterwards,  '  The  damn  fool 
never  learned  to  swim.  I  told  him  he'd  wish  he  had.' 

"  You  don't  think,  do  you,  that  if  people  look  alike  they 
necessarily  are  alike?  "  Agnes  questioned  anxiously. 

Miriam  disregarded  the  question  and  went  on.  "  Ferdi 
nand  Ballington  is  the  kind  of  man  to  say  '  The  damn  fool 
never  learned  to  swim.'  I  know  that  head  perfectly."  Her 
hands  were  modeling  imaginary  clay. 

Then  her  manner  changed  into  a  caricature  of  Ferdinand's. 
"  You  may  think  you  have  been  brought  up  by  parents  who 
are  an  honor  to  the  human  race.  But  they're  not.  None  of 
the  real  New  Englanders  are.  They're  troglodytes  back 
in  the  stone  age.  Ferdinand  Ballington  is  the  flower  of 
humanity.  Evolution  points  to  him.  All  the  Christians  are 
going  to  disappear.  Not  adapted  to  this  world.  I  hope  he 
will  enjoy  society  when  all  we  decent  warm-blooded  simians 
are  extinct."  She  added  the  last  sentence  with  a  reversion 
to  her  own  tone. 

Agnes  did  not  respond  and  Miriam  added  presently, 
"  They  are  queer  business  partners." 

"  Who  are?  "  Agnes  asked. 

"  Ferdinand  and  Donald  Ballington.  I  like  your  friend," 
she  said  courteously. 

And  then  she  rose,  as  Agnes  had  done.  "  It  was  nice  of 
you  to  take  me  with  you  to-night.  I  stayed  over  only  be 
cause  Professor  Dimmock  thought  he  would  be  at  liberty  to 
show  me  some  new  microscope  slides — alligator  egg.  It 
would  have  been  lonely  enough  here." 

Agnes  looked  at  her  friend  still  more  curiously.  Miriam 
always  had  been  odd,  she  knew,  but  that  a  girl  should  deliber 
ately  stay  at  college  a  day  after  Commencement  just  to  see 
alligator  eggs  was  abnormal.  It  was  queer,  too,  that  Miriam 
should  speak  respectfully  of  Donald  and  cavalierly  of  Ferdi 
nand  Ballington,  when  the  latter  seemed  to  have  so  much 


THE     BALLINGTONS  11 

more  in  common  with  her.  Ferdinand  was  fluent  upon  the 
scientific  subjects  which  interested  Miriam,  while  Donald  was 
a  plain  business  man.  Miriam  had  spoken  of  Christians  with 
esteem,  too,  and  Agnes  noticed  this  with  some  relief.  Per 
haps  all  the  gossip  about  Miriam's  heterodox  religious  opin 
ions  was  unfounded.  Because  a  girl  studied  with  Professor 
Dimmock  was  no  proof  that  she  must  share  his  dangerous 
doctrines. 

As  Agnes  turned  to  say  good-by,  a  wave  of  emotion  swept 
over  her.  It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  felt  it  for  Miriam 
during  the  three  years  they  had  lived  so  near  to  each  other 
and  yet  so  distinctly  apart.  In  spite  of  all  their  differ 
ences  something  drew  her  to  the  older  girl.  She  had  sought 
her  persistently,  though  with  little  success.  Now  Agnes  said 
abruptly  and  unexpectedly,  "  I  wish  you  liked  me,  Miriam." 

"  I  do,"  Miriam  replied  readily.  "  I  have  always  liked 
you,  Agnes."  But  she  dropped  her  eyes. 

"  Why  haven't  you  ever  shown  it  then  ?  "  persisted  the 
girl.  "  I  have  made  you  many  advances.  Why  do  you  think 
I  tried  to  read  the  '  Origin  of  Species.'  I've  wanted  you 
more  than  I  have  any  other  girl  in  school,  but  I've — I've 
always  been  afraid  of  you." 

Miriam  kept  her  face  down.  At  last  she  said  with  her  slow 
smile,  "  Well,  we'll  make  it  up  next  year.  You  needn't  be 
afraid  of  me  then." 

"  No,  we  can't  make  it  up  next  year.  I — I'm  not  coming 
back." 

"  Not  coming  back?  Your  senior  year?  "  Miriam  looked 
up  keenly.  Then  she  remembered  that  there  would  probably 
be  a  marriage,  instead,  so  she  dropped  her  eyes  and  added, 
"  Something  more  interesting,  of  course." 

Agnes  was  repulsed,  but  she  continued,  "  I  just  heard  the 

other  day.  The  fact  is "  Her  voice  broke.  Suddenly 

she  dropped  on  the  bed,  put  her  head  down  in  the  pillow  and 
began  to  cry. 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Miriam,  looking 
down  irresolutely  at  her  companion.  She  felt  tempted  to  go 


12  THE    BALLINGTONS 

over  and  put  her  arms  around  Agnes,  but  Miriam  was  not 
demonstrative,  so  she  stood  still  and  waited. 

Presently  Agnes  sat  up,  much  ashamed  of  herself  for 
giving  way  to  her  feelings  before  her  self -controlled  friend, 
and  explained  why  she  could  not  go  back  to  college.  An 
aunt,  crippled  with  rheumatism,  had  come  to  live  with  her 
parents.  She  could  not  use  her  hands  and  part  of  the  time 
she  had  to  be  nursed.  Dr.  Sidney  was  not  able  to  afford 
a  trained  nurse  and  his  daughter  was  needed  at  home. 

Miriam  heard  her  through,  and  then,  coloring  a  little, 
requested  that  she  might  lend  Agnes  the  money  to  carry  her 
through  her  last  year. 

Agnes  was  startled.  She  recalled  a  school-girl  rumor  that 
Miriam  sold  clay  models  to  enthusiastic  New  York  million 
aires.  "  I  didn't  know  you  were  rich,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  not  rich !  But  I've  a  share  in  one  of  my  father's 
vessels.  It  brings  me  in  something,  and  I've  nothing  to  spend 
it  on.  Dress  doesn't  suit  me." 

Agnes  was  touched,  but  she  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to 
accept  the  offer.  When  Miriam  urged  the  loss  of  the  observa 
tory  work  of  the  senior  year  the  girl  replied  with  sudden 
frankness  that  she  didn't  care  much  for  that  or  for  any  other 
course  of  study;  that  her  regret  was  for  the  athletics,  the 
chorus,  the  orchestra,  the  dramatic  club. 

Miriam  had  long  secretly  ridiculed  Agnes  for  her  devotion 
to  what  she  considered  superficialities,  and  it  was  therefore 
quite  as  much  to  her  own  surprise  as  to  her  friend's  that  she 
found  herself  urging  Agnes  to  take  the  money  and  come  back 
even  for  these  things.  It  suddenly  struck  her  that  the  college 
would  seem  very  lonely  and  dull  without  the  vivid  touch  of 
light  and  color  Agnes  lent  it,  and  at  the  same  instant  she  was 
conscious  that  the  standards  she  hitherto  had  set  up  for  her 
self  seemed  false.  Life  was  much  wider  and  richer  than  she 
lived  it,  and  as  she  looked  at  her  friend  vague  longings  and 
regrets  awoke  in  her. 

Presently  Agnes  met  her  gaze  with  a  kindred  longing  in 
her  own  eyes.  "  Miriam,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  I  wish  I  had 


THE    BALLINGTONS  13 

a  mind  like  yours.  I  never  wished  it  so  much.  It  is  what  you 
have  found  lacking  in  me,  and  the  lack  is  why  you  never  have 
responded  to  me." 

"  You  have  a  good  mind,"  answered  Miriam,  choosing  her 
words.  "  It  is  a  better  one  than  you  deserve,  for  you  don't 
use  it.  You  have  gained  results  all  your  life  by  relying  on 
your  temperament.  And  why  not — why  not  ?  "  She  laid  her 
hand  on  Agnes'  shoulder  as  she  spoke,  and  held  her  off  at 
arm's  length,  regarding  her  critically. 

Then  with  a  good-by  on  her  lips  she  drew  the  girl  toward 
her. 

Agnes  divined  her  intention  and  put  out  her  hands  with  a 
desperate  gesture.  "  Miriam,  no  one  knows  what  may  happen 
before  we  meet  again.  I  want  your  love,  and  I  want  to  earn 
it.  You  are  the  thing  I  want  most  in  the  world.  That  is 
the  truth.  You  could  make  out  of  me  almost  anything  you 
wished.  I  will  work  for  years  to  be  what  you  honor  and 
admire.  You  are  different  from  everything  else  I  have 
known.  If  you  turn  me  off,  there's  nothing  left  for  me  but 
a  country  life  which  I'm  not  fit  for.  This  is  my  last  chance." 

She  spoke  with  difficulty,  but  with  tearless  eyes,  and  then 
turned  away  to  the  window.  The  truant  ivy  leaves  that  were 
climbing  over  the  window-ledge  were  cool  beneath  her  hand, 
and  the  air  was  sweet  with  locust  bloom.  The  turf  stretched 
away  like  black  velvet  in  the  night,  and  out  of  the  shadows 
came  the  sound  of  water  falling  from  the  fountain-jet  back 
into  the  basin.  The  elms — those  palm-trees  of  the  north — 
swayed  their  Gothic  arches  softly  to  and  fro,  and  through 
them  she  could  see  the  lights  and  spires  of  the  city  in  the 
valley.  As  she  stood  waiting  and  fearing  a  reply,  the  girl 
experienced  a  longing  to  stay  on  there  forever.  The  fairest 
life  she  knew  was  fading  behind  her. 

Miriam  made  no  reply. 

Agnes  stood  erect  at  last  and  turned  back  to  her  com 
panion.  "  I  shouldn't  have  said  that,  Miriam.  What  I  said 
about  you  is  true,  but  it  isn't  my  only  chance.  I  know  I'm 
not  worth  you.  I  know 


14  THE    BALLINGTONS 

A  slow  wave  of  color  crept  up  Miriam's  cheeks.  "  Wait, 
Agnes ! "  she  interrupted,  with  the  first  uncertainty  Agnes 
ever  had  seen  in  her.  "  It  sounded  egotistic  to  say  it,  but " — 
she  made  a  swift  gesture  to  the  casts  along  the  wall — 
"  there  is  my  life !  One  cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon.  I 
want  to  become  a  sculptor.  I  haven't  time  and  I  thought  I 
hadn't  inclination  for  the  emotions.  But  to-night  I  have 
begun  to  feel  that  if  I  succeed  in  my  work  it  will  be  at  the 
cost  of  sacrifices." 

"  Sacrifices  ?  "  repeated  Agnes,  uncomprehending. 

"  Yes.  I  have  no  other  relation  than  my  father,  and  I 
never  shall  marry." 

"  Do  you  disapprove  of  marriage?  "  asked  Agnes  wonder- 
ingly. 

"  No,"  replied  Miriam  seriously,  "  but  if  some  women  are 
to  do  their  best  they  must  give  it  up.  I  believe  I  must.  There 
is  room  in  the  world  of  homes  for  us.  and  if  we  keep  true  to 
ourselves  we  ought  to  make  the  homes  more  beautiful." 

She  put  up  her  hand  gently  and  touched  the  bust  of 
Hermes  on  the  shelf.  As  Agnes  looked  at  her  she  was  con 
scious  of  a  greater  distance  between  them  than  she  ever  had 
realized  before. 

"  Do  you  feel  that  in  justice  to  your  work  you  cannot  make 
friends  either?  "  she  asked  impersonally. 

Miriam's  hand  left  the  Hermes,  and  her  smile  came  back. 
"  I  feel  that  I  may  not  have  many  friends,"  she  replied,  "  and 
there  is  therefore  a  world  of  meaning  in  that  word  to  me.  It 
means  what  home  means  to  other  women,  the  strongest  tie  I 
ever  shall  have." 

Then  she  put  out  her  hands,  drew  Agnes  to  her  until  their 
faces  touched  and  said  in  a  tone  Agnes  never  had  heard  be 
fore,  "  I  need  you  more  than  you  need  me.  Henceforth  we 
will  be  friends.  What  I  can  do  for  you,  I  will  do.  Whatever 
you  may  achieve  or  become,  count  on  my  help,  such  as  it  is, 
on  my  unswerving  help." 


CHAPTER   II 

''FHERE  is  a  limit  even  to  the  patience  of  Job,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Sidney,  and  she  looked  up  significantly  from  her 
sewing  at  her  daughter. 

"  Oh,  I'll  write  it  before  long,"  returned  Agnes,  putting  the 
last  hairpin  in  her  Aunt  Mattie's  hair.  "  I'll  write  it  before 
I  go  over  to  the  sewing  society.  There,  Aunt  Mattie ! " 

Agnes  did  not  look  at  her  mother  as  she  spoke.  During  the 
two  weeks  at  home  she  had  been  struggling  to  keep  up  her 
collegiate  dignity,  but  it  was  not  easy  to  do  this  with  her 
mother,  who  knew  her  every  weakness,  looking  on.  Mrs. 
Sidney  faced  the  world  squarely  and  she  was  a  master-hand  at 
stripping  off  from  others  their  rags  of  pretence.  The  zeal 
with  which  she  called  her  daughter  to  account  for  those  slips 
which  Agnes  willingly  would  have  hidden  even  from  herself 
was  taking  the  heart  out  of  the  makeshifts  which  the  girl 
bravely  put  up  to  deceive  the  outside  world.  Agnes  felt  her 
self  sinking  back  into  her  life-time  relation  with  her  mother, 
and  she  did  not  find  it  half  so  agreeable  to  be  helped  along  the 
road  to  perfection  by  being  admonished  of  her  faults  as  in 
the  college  way  of  being  lured  onward  by  visions  of  attain 
ment.  She  put  on  her  acquired  manner  at  rarer  intervals  and 
even  then  shamefacedly,  feeling  ever  in  her  mother's  shrewd 
smile  a  pitiless  comment  upon  her  effort.  On  this  particular 
occasion  she  sought  to  divert  attention  from  herself  by  cen 
tering  it  upon  her  aunt.  She  turned  the  invalid's  chair  so 
that  the  occupant  could  see  herself  in  the  glass.  Aunt  Mattie 
eyed  quizzically  the  angular  figure  which  faced  her  from  the 
mirror.  She  took  in  the  grim  face  surmounted  by  a  pom 
padour  roll  which  Agnes  had  substituted  for  the  usual  tight 
top-knot,  and  then  she  exchanged  a  humorous  smile  with  her 
hair-dresser. 

15 


16  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"When  Donald  Ballington  was  here,"  went  on  Mrs.  Sid 
ney,  undiverted,  her  strong  face  lighting  up  with  satisfac 
tion,  "he  told  me  he  didn't  play  cards.  I  thank  the  Lord 
there  is  one  pure  young  man  left." 

"  There's  a  younger  brother — Tom,"  remarked  Agnes, 
loosening  some  strands  of  her  aunt's  hair  still  more,  and 
apparently  studying  it  critically.  "  Did  you  ever  see  him  ?  " 

Mrs.  Sidney's  face  settled  into  sternness.  "  Your  cousin 
Fred  told  me  of  Mr.  Thomas  Ballington.  He  is  the  one  who 
has  been  carrying  on  such  a  flirtation  with  Beatrice  Mott. 
He  hasn't  given  it  up  yet,  either.  I'm  very  much  afraid  he's 
sowing  wild  oats." 

"Oh,  Fred  was  jealous  of  Tom,"  said  Agnes  carelessly. 
Then  her  expression  brightened.  "  I'm  glad  Beatrice  and 
Fred  are  really  engaged.  She  will  give  him  a  great  deal  he 
never  has  had." 

Mrs.  Sidney  answered  with  considerable  feeling,  "  We  don't 
any  of  us  know  Beatrice  Mott,  and  Fred  has  known  her  only 
a  few  weeks.  Her  father  is  a  very  worldly  man.  Fred 
would  have  done  better  to  stick  to  Mary  Bucher,  whom  he's 
known  all  his  life.  This  running  back  and  forth  out  to  the 
Motts'  lake  house  is  upsetting  him  at  the  bank,  too.  Young 
girls  ought  not  to  interfere  with  young  men's  work  like  that. 
I'm  going  to  tell  Mr.  Bucher  he'd  better  put  a  stop  to  it." 

"Oh,  don't,  mother!" 

"  I  think  I  shall."  Mrs.  Sidney  looked  over  at  Agnes, 
where  she  stood  fingering  some  wild  flowers  her  father  had 
brought  in  that  morning  from  the  country.  "  Are  you  going 
to  write  that  note  now?"  she  asked  without  changing  her 
tone  of  voice.  Agnes  knew  now  that  her  reply  to  Donald 
no  longer  could  be  postponed.  Mrs.  Sidney  continued,  "  No 
girl  has  a  right  to  shilly-shally  as  you  are  doing.  Don't 
tell  me  it's  because  you  don't  know  your  own  mind.  It's 
coquetry,  and  it's  very  dishonorable.  If  you  don't  want 
Donald  Ballington,  you  must  tell  him  so,  and  let  him  be  look 
ing  for  somebody  else.  There  are  plenty  of  girls  who  would 
be  glad  to  have  him." 


THE    BALLINGTONS  17 

"You  talk  as  though  a  man  started  out  to  get  a  wife  as 
if  he  were  going  to  buy  a  hat,"  said  Agnes  petulantly. 
"  And  if  that  is  the  way  you  look  at  it,  I'm  sure  I  don't  fit 
him." 

"Why  didn't  you  refuse  him  right  away,  then?" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  why  I  didn't.  I  thought  maybe 
there  was  a  doubt " 

"  He  that  doubteth  is  like  the  surge  of  the  sea,  driven  and 
tossed,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Sidney.  "  Do  learn  to  know  your 
own  mind,  Agnes.  There's  a  tendency  in  your  father's 
family  not  to  know  its  own  mind.  You'll  have  to  guard 
against  that.  And  when  you've  made  up  your  mind,  don't 
be  ashamed  to  say  it.  I  believe  you  do  love  him,  but  you 
aren't  willing  to  admit  it."  Mrs.  Sidney  eyed  Agnes  over 
her  glasses  while  she  spoke. 

"I  don't!"  Agnes  turned  suddenly,  then  dropped  her 
eyes  under  her  mother's  gaze  and  continued,  apologetically, 
"  I  just  can't  take  to  him.  I  can't  bear  the  way  his  lip 
trembles  when  he  talks.  And  his  hair  lies  down  so  sleek." 

"  When  you're  married  you  can  rumple  it  up  for  him," 
suggested  Mrs.  Sidney,  giving  her  daughter  a  cheerful  smile, 
to  which  Agnes  disdainfully  responded. 

"Yes,  you  can  rumple  it  up,"  repeated  Aunt  Mattie,  with 
a  canny  glance  in  the  mirror  at  her  own  pompadour. 

"You  respect  Donald  Ballington,  don't  you?"  persisted 
Mrs.  Sidney. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  respect  him." 

"  Respect  is  the  best  foundation  for " 

The  three  looked  up,  for  the  office  door  had  opened  and  a 
tall,  slightly-stooped  figure  stood  on  the  threshold,  hat  and 
driving  gloves  in  hand.  The  face  looking  down  at  them  was 
strongly  but  sensitively  featured,  weather-beaten  by  wind 
and  sun,  but  nevertheless  speaking  of  the  study.  The  eyes 
were  deep-set  but  clear.  The  crisp  wave  of  the  hair  and  beard 
was  plentifully  sprinkled  with  gray. 

"  Am  I  interrupting?  "  he  asked,  looking  at  them  with 
a  smile. 


18  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"You  never  interrupt,  papa,"  returned  Agnes  with  a 
genuine  ring  of  love  in  her  voice.  Her  next  sentence  took 
on  a  decided  tone  of  proprietorship  in  her  father.  "  You 
don't  think  respect  is  enough  to  marry  on,  do  you,  papa?  " 

The  doctor  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead  and  an 
swered  tentatively,  "No." 

"And  you  wouldn't  advise  a  girl  to  marry  a  man  she 
didn't  love,  would  you?  " 

"  No,  I  would  not." 

Dr.  Sidney  turned  to  his  wife.  "  Did  you  get  those  band 
ages  down  to  the  Richards',  Kate  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  did,  but  I  don't  know  how  I  got  the  time.  You 
seem  to  think  I  can  be  in  six  places  at  once,  Stephen." 

"  You  are  equal  to  six  women  in  other  respect,"  returned 
the  doctor,  his  kind  eyes  lingering  on  his  wife's  face.  "  I 
won't  be  back  till  late,  Kate.  I've  got  to  drive  way  out  on 
the  plank  road." 

Mrs.  Sidney  dropped  her  sewing  instantly  and  started  to 
get  up.  "You  must  eat  something  first." 

"  No,  I  won't  wait." 

"  It  won't  take  me  five  minutes.    Agnes,  you " 

"  I'll  have  supper  at  the  Block  House.  I've  got  to  stop 
there." 

Mrs.  Sidney  sat  down  with  a  look  of  relief  and  the  doctor 
turned  to  the  office.  Before  he  closed  the  door,  however,  he 
paused  and  looked  again  toward  Agnes. 

"  And  if  no  one  comes  whom  you  want  to  marry,  you 
always  can  count  on  one  man  to  love  you,"  he  said.  Then  he 
nodded  to  them  and  shut  the  door. 

"  Stephen  furnishes  every  drop  of  medicine  that  goes  into 
that  Richards  house,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sidney  impatiently, 
as  soon  as  the  door  closed.  "  He's  paying  the  nurse,  too. 
I  told  him  I'd  never  take  another  thing  there  as  long  as  I 
lived.  I  believe  he  sends  them  things  just  to  irritate  me." 

"Stephen  lives  to  irritate,"  remarked  Aunt  Mattie  dis 
passionately. 

Mrs.  Sidney  looked  at  her,  perceptibly  vexed.     "Mattie, 


THE    BALLINGTONS  19 

it  wasn't  necessary  for  you  to  say  that.  I  know  just  as  well 
as  you  do  that  Stephen  never  did  anything  to  irritate  any 
body  in  all  his  born  days.  I  couldn't  say  as  much  of  you." 

Then  she  turned  to  Agnes.  "  It's  all  very  well  for  you  to 
have  your  father  to  love  you,"  she  said  meaningly,  "but  he 
won't  live  forever.  I  want  you  to  consider  carefully  what 
you  write  Donald  Ballington." 

There  was  an  old-fashioned  desk  standing  in  a  corner  of 
the  room.  When  Agnes  sat  down  before  it  she  saw  a  marked 
newspaper  placed  where  she  would  see  it.  The  paragraph 
indicated  read  as  follows: 

Hannah  More,  who  knew  whereof  she  spoke,  was  once  heard  to  make 
the  remark  that  she  would  advise  every  woman  to  close  with  the  offer 
of  the  first  God-fearing  man  who  wished  to  marry  her. 

Agnes  shoved  the  newspaper  aside  and  began  to  write. 
After  some  painful  work  upon  several  sheets,  she  drew  a 
sigh  of  relief  and  began  again  upon  new  note-paper.  Pres 
ently  she  stopped,  reflected,  rose  and  consulted  a  Shake 
speare  in  the  book-case.  Then  there  was  more  writing,  a 
pause  now  and  then  for  thought,  and  then  copying. 

Mrs.  Sidney  kept  watch  of  her  daughter's  face,  and  what 
she  saw  there  was  so  gratifying  to  her  hope  that  she  worked 
silently  and  did  not  interrupt  her.  She  only  once  attempted 
conversation.  Then  she  said,  with  the  pleasure  she  always 
found  in  making  plans,  "  When  you  have  a  home  of  your 
own,  I'll  let  you  have  that  desk.  It's  solid  mahogany. 
Charlie  Brace  made  it  for  your  grandmother.  He  was  the 
best  cabinet-maker  in  Burlington."  Agnes  looked  indiffer 
ently  at  the  desk. 

"  I  want  to  see  your  letter  before  you  seal  it,  Agnes,"  said 
Mrs.  Sidney  when  the  writing  was  done. 

Agnes  rose  and  held  the  envelope  before  her  mother's  eyes. 
It  was  addressed  to  Miriam  Cass,  and  she  stood  waiting  super 
ciliously  while  her  mother  glanced  at  it. 

"  Here  is  the  one  you  want,"  she  said,  handing  out  the 
first  sheet  she  had  written  and  feeling  somewhat  embarrassed 


20  THE    BALLINGTONS 

at  her  mother's  silence.  Mrs.  Sidney  adjusted  her  glasses 
and  read  a  kind  but  short  refusal  of  Donald's  offer  of 
marriage. 

Mrs.  Sidney  handed  the  letter  back  to  her  without  a  word, 
and,  rising,  began  to  pack  her  hampers  for  the  sewing-society. 
The  odor  of  lavender  penetrated  the  air  as  the  large  figure 
moved  about  among  the  baskets.  This  mood  of  her  mother's 
always  awed  Agnes.  She  did  not  understand  it,  and  it  was 
years  before  she  learned  that  after  Mrs.  Sidney  had  passed 
a  certain  limit  of  disappointment  her  lowered  eyes  no  longer 
held  flames,  but  tears,  behind  their  brilliant  blue. 

When  Agnes  came  back  to  the  sitting  room  Mrs.  Sidney 
was  putting  on  her  bonnet  to  start  for  church.  Her  face 
showed  the  disappointment  she  felt  in  the  outcome  of  Agnes' 
love-affair,  but  Mrs.  Sidney  never  wasted  time  with  a  matter 
which  was  once  decided  and  out  of  the  way.  "  I'm  going 
to  carry  over  all  the  sewing,"  she  said,  at  once.  "  That 
ought  to  go  first,  because  they'll  be  wanting  to  pack  the 
missionary  box  right  away.  You'll  have  to  bring  the  things 
to  eat.  And  be  sure  you  bring  the  plated  ware.  Don't 
bring  the  solid  silver.  And  be  sure  you  count  it.  Now,  I'm 
going,  Mattie.  You'll  find  your  supper  on  a  plate  in  the 
refrigerator,  and  Agnes  shall  bring  you  over  some  coffee 
from  the  church.  I'm  sorry  you  won't  come  over  to  the 
concert." 

She  picked  up  her  hamper  and  started  toward  the  office 
door.  Here  she  stopped  short  and  spoke  to  her  sister-in-law 
again.  "  If  there  is  anything  in  a  hurry,  Mattie,  you  can 
telephone  Quinn.  Run  along,  Agnes,  and  open  the  outside 
door  for  me." 

Some  fifteen  minutes  later  Agnes  followed  her  mother  down 
the  familiar  street  to  the  church,  walking  under  elms  which 
met  overhead  and  which  lent  to  the  old  town  a  dreamy,  half- 
religious  atmosphere. 

As  she  entered  the  church  and  went  up  the  stairs  the  odor 
of  coffee  greeted  her.  In  the  front  parlor  a  dozen  women 
were  packing  the  garments  for  the  home  missionary  into  a 


THE     BALLINGTONS  21 

dry-goods  box,  while  Mr.  Carter,  the  pastor,  stood  by,  pencil 
in  hand,  making  a  note  of  the  contents.  Other  ladies  were 
setting  the  table  in  the  back  parlor,  and  further  on,  in  the 
kitchen,  Agnes  saw  her  mother's  flushed  face  bending  over  a 
big  boiler  of  coffee  on  the  stove.  A  few  elderly  men, 
early  comers,  were  straggling  about  the  room  waiting  for 
supper. 

"  There  aren't  any  forks  on  this  table  in  the  corner, 
Agnes,"  said  a  sweet-faced  girl  who  already  had  been  quietly 
at  work  for  some  time.  "  Did  you  bring  any  ?  " 

"Yes.  They're  right  out  in  the  kitchen  pantry.  You 
can  get  them.  I  want  to  garnish  this  bowl." 

Mary  Bucher  went  at  once  for  the  forks. 

While  the  girls  were  setting  the  table  a  party  of  young 
people  came  tumultuously  into  the  dining-room.  Among 
them  was  Agnes'  cousin,  Fred  Sidney.  The  first  thing  one 
noticed  about  Fred  was  the  family  resemblance  to  Dr.  Sidney. 
His  face  lacked  the  weather-beaten  experience  which  was  so 
noticeable  in  his  uncle's,  but  it  had  a  sweetness  and  innocent 
grace,  while  underneath  these  qualities  was  a  steadfastness 
that  saved  him  from  weakness.  His  was  not  an  aggressive 
nature,  but  it  had  that  fineness  of  temper  that  would  enable 
it  to  resist  and  endure  pressure  indefinitely.  He  carried  his 
youth  excellently  well  as  he  approached  the  girls — without 
rawness  and  without  timidity. 

"  Good  evening,"  he  said,  shaking  hands  with  them 
quaintly.  "  We  came  early  on  purpose  to  have  a  good  time 
with  you  two  downstairs  in  the  lecture-room  before  supper. 
Will  you  come  down  ?  " 

"Indeed  we  will  come  down!"  exclaimed  Agnes  joyously, 
and  the  group  left  the  room,  elated  with  their  reinforcement. 

Down  in  the  lecture-room  the  chairs  were  not  yet  placed 
for  the  concert  which  was  to  take  place  that  evening.  The 
piano  stood  in  front,  and  near  it  on  a  table  were  several  other 
instruments. 

"  Is  that  your  guitar,  Hattie  ?  "  asked  Mary,  turning  to 
a  red-cheeked  girl  in  plaid. 


22  THE     BALLINGTONS 

"  Yes.  I'm  one  of  the  old  people.  Sport  and  I  are  going 
to  play  some  old  folks'  duets,  aren't  we,  Sport?  "  She 
elbowed  the  young  man  named  Sport,  and  giggled. 

Sport  turned  a  dazzling  smile  to  the  rest  of  the  group. 
"  Who  else  is  going  to  perform  ?  "  he  chuckled. 

"  I'm  going  to  play,"  said  Mary  without  embarrassment. 
"  And  Agnes  is  going  to  sing." 

"  Yes,  and  Montfort  is  going  to  declaim,"  added  another 
voice. 

"  Meantime,"  said  the  young  man  called  Sport,  "  let  us 
have  a  cozy  dance  before  we  are  interrupted.  Will  you  play 
a  waltz,  Mary?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  I'd  dance  if  I  were  you,"  returned  Mary, 
glancing  uneasily  at  her  companions.  "  Perhaps  Mr.  Carter 
wouldn't  like  it." 

"  Father  doesn't  object  to  dancing  at  all,"  spoke  up  a 
young  man  who  wore  his  hair  ferociously  low  on  his  forehead. 
He  looked  down  at  Mary  from  over  a  very  high  collar,  and 
remarked  in  addition,  "  The  Bible  upholds  dancing.  David 
danced.  And — some  others  danced." 

"  Perhaps  the  bears  danced  while  they  were  eating  up  the 
children,"  suggested  Hattie  Pierce. 

"  Do  you  think  your  mother  would  mind,  Agnes  ?  "  asked 
Mary,  still  hesitating. 

Agnes  had  anticipated  this  question.  Her  mother's  opin 
ions  about  amusements  were  a  continual  mortification  to  the 
girl,  and  she  blushed  when  thus  pinned  down  to  them.  "  If 
Montfort  thinks  his  father  wouldn't  mind,  I  should  think  that 
is  all  that  need  be  considered." 

She  walked  over  to  the  piano  while  speaking,  sat  down,  and 
began  to  play  a  waltz.  It  always  had  been  a  rueful  satisfac 
tion  to  Agnes  that  she  could  at  least  play  the  piano  at  danc 
ing  parties. 

"  It's  too  bad  Agnes  can't  dance,"  she  heard  Mary  say  to 
Fred  as  the  two  went  out  on  the  floor ;  "  I'd  offer  to  play  for 
her,  but " 

Agnes'  cheeks  crimsoned  and  she  held  up  her  head  proudly. 


THE     BALLINGTONS  23 

What  an  irony  of  fate  it  was  that  her  mother  should 
be  so  fanatical  while  she  herself  was  so  full  of  music  and 
motion. 

After  a  time  she  was  conscious  of  a  lull  in  the  scraping  of 
feet  and  brushing  of  dresses.  She  turned  on  the  stool,  and 
saw  standing  in  the  doorway  a  portentous  figure.  It  was 
Mrs.  Sidney,  with  a  pitcher  of  coffee  in  her  hand,  whose  steam 
was  like  the  smoke  of  a  disregarded  offering  ascending  to  an 
irate  divinity. 

As  she  looked  from  one  to  another  of  the  dancers  a  storm 
gathered  rapidly  in  her  face.  "  Fred  Sidney !  "  came  the  ex 
plosion  at  length.  "  Mary  Bucher !  Hattie  Pierce !  Mont- 
fort  Carter !  Agnes  !  " 

There  was  an  ominous  pause.  Mary  was  the  first  to  stir. 
She  detached  herself  from  Fred's  arms. 

"  Dancing ! "  continued  Mrs.  Sidney,  and  a  second  gust 
of  terror  swept  over  the  room  as  she  spoke.  "  Dancing  in 
the  prayer-meeting  room!  Montfort  Carter,  what  do  you 
think  your  father  would  say  ?  " 

"  Father  doesn't  object  to  dancing  at  all,  Mrs.  Sidney," 
began  Montfort  weakly.  "  Father  approves  of  dancing. 
David  danced." 

Hattie  Pierce  choked  down  a  hysterical  giggle. 

"  David  danced  before  the  Lord,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney 
grimly.  "  He  wasn't  dancing  round  dances."  She  advanced 
into  the  room,  and  looked  around  her.  "  Let  me  see,  who  is 
here?"  she  went  on,  "Who  is  that  young  man?"  and  she 
pointed  to  "  Sport." 

"  This  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Hitchcock,"  answered  Hattie, 
pinching  her  "  friend's  "  elbow.  "  He  was  kind  enough  to 
come  here  to  take  part  in  the  '  Old  Folks'  Concert '  to-night." 

Young  Mr.  Carter  had  been  regaining  his  self-possession, 
and  seized  this  opportunity  to  speak.  "  Would  you  object  to 
telling  me  why  you  think  it  is  right  to  sing  in  this  room  and 
not  to  dance  here,  Mrs.  Sidney?  "  he  asked  blandly. 

Mrs.  Sidney  turned  to  Agnes  without  noticing  him.  "  Have 
you  been  dancing  ?  "  she  asked  sternly. 


24  THE     BALLINGTONS 

"  I  don't  care  to  dance,"  said  Agnes,  moving  toward  her 
mother. 

"  Agnes  Sidney,  have  you  been  dancing?  " 

"  No,  she  hasn't,  Mrs.  Sidney,"  interposed  Mary  Bucher. 
"  She  only  played  for  the  rest  of  us." 

"  Only  played  for  the  rest  of  you !  Mary,  I'm  surprised 
at  you  for  excusing  her  in  that  way.  Was  Saul  guiltless  of 
Stephen's  death  because  he  only  held  the  clothes  of  them  that 
stoned  him?  Montfort!  don't  you  leave  this  room!  " 

"  What  is  it  you  wish,  Mrs.  Sidney  ?  "  In  spite  of  him 
self  Montfort  felt  that  he  was  but  a  toy  in  her  hands,  and  he 
fumed  inwardly. 

"  You  go  upstairs  and  tell  your  father  that  I  want  to  see 
him  down  here." 

Montfort  left  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Sidney  sat  down  to 
await  his  return.  Agnes  made  a  nervous  attempt  to  take 
the  pitcher  of  coffee  from  her  mother  and  escape  with  it,  but 
Mrs.  Sidney  silenced  her. 

"  We  didn't  mean  any  harm,  Aunt  Kate,"  said  Fred,  com 
ing  over  and  sitting  down  by  his  aunt.  "  Don't  make  too 
much  of  it." 

"  This  comes  of  your  learning  to  dance,  Fred,"  and  Mrs. 
Sidney  shook  her  head  at  her  nephew.  "  The  responsibility 
is  upon  you  older  ones.  You  should  have  been  setting  a  good 
example  to  those  boys  and  girls.  Look  at  them!  They  are 
just  like  sheep  that  will  jump  over  any  fence  after  their 
leader."  The  sheep  spoken  of  were  now  huddled  together  at 
the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  and  did  not  look  capable  of 
vaulting  any  kind  of  a  fence. 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Carter  appeared  at  the  door  with 
Montfort  behind  him.  The  minister  looked  uneasily  about  the 
room,  and  then  at  Mrs.  Sidney  with  deprecating  politeness. 
He  was  wondering,  as  those  of  his  profession  so  often  are 
obliged  to  wonder,  how  he  could  arbitrate  in  this  awkward 
affair  without  offending  anybody. 

Mrs.  Sidney  rose.  "  Mr.  Carter,  I  came  down  here  to  send 
my  daughter  on  an  errand,"  she  said,  "  and  I  found  these 


THE    BALLINGTONS  25 

young  people  dancing  round  dances  in  the  prayer-meeting 
room." 

"I  see.    Yes." 

Mr.  Carter  let  his  eyes  rove  while  he  was  speaking.  They 
rested  upon  the  red  tie  of  Hattie's  "  friend  who  was  kind 
enough  to  come  and  play  at  the  concert,"  and  the  sight  of 
this  outsider  offered  a  moment's  respite.  "  Ah !  How  do 
you  do,  Mr.  Hitchcock !  "  he  said,  extending  his  hand. 

The  interruption  lasted  only  an  instant,  however,  and  Mr. 
Carter  then  felt  bound  to  take  some  stand  upon  the  question. 
At  this  critical  moment  the  side  door  of  the  church  opened 
and  two  gentlemen  came  into  the  hall  together.  They  were 
Judge  Pierce  and  Deacon  Snow,  both  of  them  advocates  of 
new-fangled  ideas,  and  Mr.  Carter  felt  his  position  still  more 
ticklish  as  he  observed  that  they  were  waiting  in  the  hall  to 
listen.  Mr.  Carter  prided  himself  upon  being  a  liberal  min 
ister.  He  liked  to  refer  to  the  bigotries  of  his  parents  and 
tell  how  he  had  outgrown  them.  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that 
his  own  liberality  was  along  those  lines  that  were  in  fashion 
among  his  contemporaries. 

Now  he  had  just  begun  to  say,  "  Montfort  had  been  telling 

me "  when  he  noticed  the  somewhat  contemptuous  smile 

upon  the  face  of  Deacon  Snow.  He  drew  up  his  little  figure 
and  completed  his  sentence  with  more  assertion — "  That  his 
friends  and  he  were  indulging  in  a  little  harmless  dancing." 
He  glanced  furtively  toward  the  hall  again,  but  to  his  dis 
may  the  two  men  were  passing  on  up  the  stairs. 

"  Harmless  dancing !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sidney,  facing  him. 
Alas !  She  had  no  intention  of  following  them.  "  Harmless 
dancing  in  the  prayer-meeting  room,  Mr.  Carter?  " 

"  Well !  Mrs.  Sidney,  the  past  generation  was  perhaps  a 
little  too  stringent.  Perhaps  there  isn't  so  much  harm,  after 
all,  in  letting  the  young  people  dance  a  little  at  a  church 
sociable.  The  Congregational  Church  at  Winston  has  a 
theater  in  it.  But,  at  the  same  time,  if  you  object,  Mrs. 
Sidney " 

"  I  do  object,  Mr.  Carter.    And  Jesus  Christ  would  object. 


26  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Would  you  see  any  harm  in  the  money-changers  turning  the 
temple  into  a  booth  for  merchandise  ?  "  She  controlled  her 
speech  and  waited  for  an  answer,  looking  at  her  pastor  with 
righteous  indignation  in  her  eyes. 

"  Would  you  have  me  drive  them  out  with  a  scourge  ?  " 
questioned  the  minister,  spreading  out  his  hands.  "  Are  you 
not,  perhaps,  judging  Jesus  Christ  by  one  incident,  rather 
than  by  the  trend  of  His — er — customs  ?  Jesus  was  meek  and 
gentle." 

"  He  knew  how  to  be  meek,"  returned  Mrs.  Sidney  care 
fully.  Then  she  dropped  her  voice  to  a  deep  tone.  "  But  He 
knew  how  to  be  terrible."  She  straightened  herself  and 
loomed  before  them  like  a  prophet  in  wrath.  "  I'm  getting 
tired  of  hearing  of  Jesus'  meekness.  Do  you  think  it  was  the 
few  wisps  of  string  in  His  hand  that  drove  the  money 
changers  out  of  the  church?  You  couldn't — there  are  some 
people  who  couldn't  have  driven  them  out  with  a  flail.  It 
was  the  moral  power  of  the  man.  No,  I  wouldn't  have  you 
take  a  scourge  to  the  children,  but  I'd  have  you  show  some 
moral  stamina.  They  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Let  your 
yea  be  yea,  and  your  nay,  nay." 

Mr.  Carter's  fair  face  flushed,  but  he  smiled  through  it  all. 
When  Agnes  was  younger  she  used  to  wonder  if  he  wore  that 
smile  when  he  was  asleep. 

"  Have  you  anything  to  say  to  the  children  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Sidney  peremptorily. 

He  hesitated,  and  then  said,  turning  to  the  awe-stricken 
group  behind  him,  "  Well,  children,  since  Mrs.  Sidney 
objects — er — suppose  we  have  no  more  dancing  in  this 
room." 

He  bowed  to  Mrs.  Sidney  and  withdrew. 

Outside  the  door,  however,  he  turned  and  added  to  his  son, 
"  You  can  take  your  friends  over  to  the  parsonage  when  you 
wish  to  dance,  Montfort." 

Agnes  took  the  pitcher  and  hurried  away.  She  was  glad 
of  an  excuse  to  leave  a  scene  which  humiliated  her.  Why 
would  her  mother  make  such  a  spectacle  of  herself?  She  had 


THE    BALLINGTONS  27 

seen  Deacon  Snow's  smile,  and  she  knew  what  a  tirade  of  ridi 
cule  would  descend  upon  her  mother  as  soon  as  the  '*  chil 
dren  "  were  left  alone  together ;  so  she  decided  to  remain  at 
home  for  the  evening  instead  of  returning  to  the  concert. 
She  was  disappointed  in  her  plans,  however,  for  a  message 
came  from  her  mother  about  an  hour  later,  summoning  her 
back  to  the  church. 

When  she  entered  the  lecture-room  she  saw  the  people 
gathered  together  for  the  concert.  Her  mother  was  sitting 
alone  near  the  front  of  the  room;  for  the  story  of  the 
dancing  had  circulated,  and  no  one  seemed  to  care  or  to  dare 
to  show  friendliness  to  Mrs.  Sidney  after  the  way  she  had 
talked  to  the  minister. 

"  Why !  Here's  Aggy ! "  said  Judge  Pierce,  who  stood 
near  the  door,  taking  admissions.  He  drew  his  mouth  down 
into  an  "  O,"  and  looked  at  Agnes  with  the  genial  surprise 
which  he  always  seemed  to  feel  upon  meeting  his  daily  com 
panions  in  their  accustomed  places.  "  Well,  Aggy,  I  was 
brought  up  to  disapprove  of  round-dancing,  too.  Your 
mother  is  only  one  generation  behind  the  times.  She'll  come 
around  in  the  course  of  time.  I  think  she's  cavin'  in  a  little, 
now,"  he  ended,  in  a  confidential  whisper.  Agnes  passed  on 
coolly. 

The  sight  of  her  mother  sitting  alone  caused  Agnes'  irri 
tation  to  swerve  away  from  the  original  object  and  fix  itself 
upon  the  other  people  present.  Her  loyalty  to  her  mother 
was  further  strengthened  by  the  Judge's  prophecy  that  Mrs. 
Sidney  would  soon  "  cave  in,"  a  condition  of  affairs  which 
suddenly  struck  the  girl  as  so  undesirable  that  she  was  seized 
with  a  determination  to  back  up  her  mother  in  her  misguided 
but  gallant  ways.  As  she  made  her  way  down  the  aisle  she 
saw  Mary  Bucher  leave  the  minister,  to  whom  she  had  been 
talking,  and  cross  the  room  to  sit  down  by  Mrs.  Sidney.  A 
throb  of  gratitude  to  her  friend  caused  a  flush  to  rise  to 
Agnes'  face.  She  took  her  seat  beside  the  two  with  a  manner 
which  she  meant  to  be  impressive.  However  they  might  feel 
toward  her  mother,  who  wouldn't  feel  proud  to  sit  down  by 


28  THE    BALLINGTONS 

herself,  she  wondered.  She  had  not  yet  learned  that  the 
fluctuation  of  emotion  which  Mrs.  Sidney  aroused  in  the 
townspeople  at  large  was  only  a  wider  example  of  the  effect 
produced  by  the  operation  of  the  maternal  vigilance  upon 
herself  at  small. 

She  no  sooner  was  seated  than  Mr.  Carter  arose  and  began 
to  speak.  He  gave  a  perfunctory  account  of  the  missionary 
box  which  had  been  packed  that  afternoon. 

"  We  have  undertaken  the  whole  support  of  this  home  mis 
sionary  and  of  all  his  family,"  he  said  plaintively.  "  They 
are  naked  and  ye  clothe  them  not.  They  have  called  for  an 
hundred  articles,  and  ye  send  them  twenty." 

He  consulted  a  paper  in  his  hand  and  began  to  read.  "  John 
Darke,  male,  five  feet  ten,  has  sadly  needed  two  suits,  under 
clothes,  hat,  shoes  and  stockings.  He  also  asks  very  modestly 
for  an  umbrella."  Mr.  Carter  looked  up  and  volunteered  the 
interpolation,  "  I  am  sure  you  will  all  feel  that  he  certainly 
ought  to  receive  the  umbrella."  Then  he  continued  reading, 
"  He  has  received  only  one  suit,  hat  and  shoes.  No  under 
clothes  and  no  stockings." 

"  Maude  Darke,  female,  five  feet  four,  waist  twenty-six 
inches.  Required,  two  suits,  underclothes,  nightclothes,  hat, 
shoes  and  stockings.  She  has  received  only  nightclothes." 
Again  he  looked  up  and  remarked,  "  I  may  state  that  she  has 
received  really  more  nightclothes  than  are  necessary,  but 
unfortunately  this  does  not  relieve  her  other  wants." 

At  this  point  Mrs.  Sidney's  sides  began  to  shake.  She 
leaned  toward  Agnes  and  had  it  on  the  tip  of  her  tongue  to 
whisper  something. 

She  thought  better  of  it,  however,  and  Mr.  Carter  went  on. 
"  Frank  Darke,  male,  four  feet  ten.  Required,  two  suits, 
underclothes,  hat,  shoes  and  stockings.  I  am  pleased  to 
say " — and  Mr.  Carter  beamed — "  that  Frank  Darke  is 
thoroughly  provided  for." 

There  followed  the  requirements  of  four  Darke  girls,  and 
then  Mr.  Carter  drew  apart  his  coat-tails  and  sat  down, 
happily  unconscious  that  he  had  presented  the  tragedy  of 


THE    BALLINGTONS  29 

seven  isolated  lives,  dedicated  to  labor,  self-denial,  and  humili 
ation,  as  a  farce. 

"Why  doesn't  the  concert  begin?"  Agnes  whispered  to 
Mary.  Her  question,  however,  was  answered  by  Mr.  Carter 
himself,  who  was  on  his  feet  and  speaking  again. 

"  As  was  announced  on  Sunday,  there  was  prepared  an 
'  Old  Folks'  Concert '  for  this  evening,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
home  missionary  fund,"  he  began,  and  he  dropped  his  eyes 
to  the  programme.  '  The  first  number  upon  the  programme 
is  a  piano  solo  by  Mr.  Forest  Gregg." 

There  was  a  pause.  Several  in  the  audience  turned  their 
heads,  but  no  one  came  forward. 

Mr.  Carter  continued: 

"  If  Mr.  Gregg  is  not  present,  we  shall  be  obliged  to  pass 
on  to  the  next  number,  which  is  a  declamation  by  Mr.  Mont- 
fort  Carter." 

Again  the  pause.  Again  a  rustle  among  the  audience. 
Mrs.  Sidney's  face  began  to  settle  into  grimness. 

"  The  third  number  on  the  programme  is  a  flute  solo,  by 
Mr.  Hitchcock,"  said  Mr.  Carter,  looking  innocently  around 
the  now  smiling  audience. 

As  was  expected,  there  was  no  response. 

Agnes  felt  herself  growing  hot  and  red.  Mary  leaned 
over  and  whispered  to  her: 

"  They've  all  gone  home.  I  tried  to  make  them  stay,  but 
they  wouldn't.  There's  no  one  to  do  anything  but  you  and 
me." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  we  should  be  so  disappointed  in  our  pro 
gramme,"  began  Mr.  Carter,  looking  not  ill-pleased  as  he 
cast  a  glance  at  Mrs.  Sidney's  side  of  the  room.  "  I  greatly 
fear  we  shall  be  obliged  to  dismiss  the  audience.  Judge 
Pierce,  you  will  please  refund  the  admission  fees  at  the 
door." 

"  Read  the  programme  through,  Mr.  Carter,"  said  Mrs. 
Sidney's  positive  voice,  breaking  into  the  hum  that 
followed. 

"  Yes,  read  the  programme  through.  Let  us  have  what  we 


30 

can,"  spoke  up  a  sing-song  voice  from  across  the  aisle  where 
Mr.  Bucher  sat.  "  No  one  wants  to  have  his  money  re 
funded." 

"  The  next  number  is  a  song,  with  guitar  accompaniment, 
by  Miss  Hattie  Pierce,"  continued  Mr.  Carter. 

There  was  no  response,  but  before  he  resumed  Mrs.  Sid 
ney  rose.  The  austerity  of  her  face  was  replaced  by  a 
good-humor.  "  Well,  if  we  were  advertised  as  an  *  Old 
Folks'  Concert,' "  she  said,  walking  toward  the  front,  "  we 
might  just  as  well  have  an  *  Old  Folks'  Concert.'  I  don't 
believe  in  putting  our  hands  to  the  plow  and  turning 
back.  I  guess  Hattie  Pierce  won't  object  to  my  using  her 
guitar." 

She  took  the  instrument  off  the  table  and  began  to  tune  it. 
The  uncomfortable  smile  of  the  audience  changed  to  one  of 
relief.  Somebody  cheered  her,  and  the  applause  grew  till 
everybody  in  the  room  was  clapping. 

"  I  didn't  know  your  mother  played  the  guitar,"  whispered 
Mary  to  Agnes. 

"  She  used  to  when  she  was  a  girl,  but  she  does  it  only  once 
in  a  long  while  now." 

Mrs.  Sidney  began  her  accompaniment.  After  playing  it 
a  second  time  her  fingers  somewhat  lost  their  clumsiness,  and 
her  sonorous  alto  took  up  a  song  of  her  youth : 

"We  met;  'twas  in  a  crowd, 
And  I  thought  he  would  shun  me; 
He  came;  I  could  not  breathe, 
For  his  eyes  were  upon  me. 
He  spoke;  his  words  were  cold, 
But  his  smile  was  unaltered. 
I  knew  how  much  he  felt, 
For  his  deep-toned  voice  faltered." 

When  she  finished  and  was  eagerly  encored,  a  flitting  ten 
derness  softened  the  corners  of  her  lips  and  the  creases  about 
her  eyes  while  she  laughed  at  what  she  called  the  "  silly 
words,"  but  she  sang  again. 

Agnes  watched  with  satisfaction  the  frozen  pleasantry  on 


THE     BALLINGTONS  31 

Mr.  Carter's  face,  and  beyond  him  she  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Montfort  peeking  through  the  window  to  see  what  was  the 
meaning  of  the  clapping  inside.  She  set  herself  at  work  de 
terminedly  to  assure  the  success  of  the  evening,  and  when  her 
mother's  encore  was  done,  she  said  with  enthusiasm,  "  Now 
Mr.  Bucher  must  play  the  flute.  Come,  Mary,  bring  your 
father  up  in  front.  Here's  a  flute." 

After  some  urging  Mr.  Bucher  consented  and  played 
several  airs,  ending  with  "  Hail  Columbia,"  which  he 
executed  with  a  spirit  that  Agnes  had  not  believed  possible 
from  him. 

"  Ask  Mr.  Carter  to  whistle,"  Mary  whispered  to  Agnes, 
as  she  rose  from  the  piano-stool.  Agnes  pretended  not  to 
understand.  She  did  not  want  to  share  the  evening's  success 
with  the  pastor.  Mary  gained  courage,  however,  made  the 
request  herself,  and  offered  to  accompany  him. 

What  it  was  that  happened  when  Mr.  Carter  whistled  no 
one  could  quite  explain.  But  the  little  minister  underwent  a 
transformation.  His  whistling  was  like  a  flute  for  softness, 
with  the  melancholy  and  richness  of  the  'cello,  and  when  it 
was  done  the  afterglow  of  the  transformation  still  lin 
gered  about  the  shabby  personality,  touching  it  with  that 
grace  and  kindness  which  pleasure  brings  to  the  most 
insignificant. 

Mary  smiled  with  delight  as  Mr.  Carter  sat  down  by  Mrs. 
Sidney  and  received  her  hearty  congratulations.  "  Now  I'll 
play,"  she  said  to  Agnes,  "  and  then  you  sing.  That  will 
keep  the  best  for  the  last." 

During  Mary's  solo,  which  was  a  time  for  whispered  con 
versation,  Agnes  caught  her  mother's  eye.  She  nodded  re 
assuringly,  rose,  and  went  forward  with  resolution.  Her 
song  was  to  have  been  the  chief  feature  of  the  evening,  as 
originally  planned.  Now  she  was  prodigal  of  her  music. 
The  people  in  the  back  part  of  the  room  began  to  come  for 
ward,  and  at  last  when  she  turned  on  the  stool  and  looked 
laughingly  around  her,  many  were  gathered  in  groups  about 
the  piano. 


32  THE     BALLINGTONS 

"  Let  us  have  some  chorus-singing ! "  she  cried,  keen  to 
their  sensitive  mood.  "  Let's  begin  with  '  America  '  !  " 

She  struck  the  chords.  Mr.  Bucher  took  up  the  flute  again 
and  played  with  her,  and  all  joined  in. 

Kent  still  talks  about  that  Old  Folks'  Concert.  Old  eyes 
glistened,  faded  cheeks  grew  rosy,  voices  trembled  with 
emotion  that  had  long  lain  dormant.  A  host  of  memories 
were  summoned  from  the  sweet  and  glowing  past,  and 
thronged  into  the  meeting-house  on  the  wings  of  familiar 
and  beloved  airs. 

At  last  Agnes  took  her  hands  from  the  keys  and  sat  still. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  the  whole  room  was  full  of  the  perfume 
of  lindens.  She  saw  a  man  turn  on  a  broad  piazza,  and  pass 
away  out  of  sight  while  she  watched  him. 

She  shook  her  head,  laughed  a  little  to  throw  off  the  vision, 
and  turned  to  the  others.  Mr.  Bucher  was  wiping  his  eyes, 
and  Agnes  caught  the  look  which  Mary  Bucher  in  entire  self- 
forgetfulness  was  giving  Fred.  The  other  singers,  too,  were 
looking  at  one  another,  confused,  ashamed  of  their  feeling, 
when  the  door  of  the  lecture-room  was  thrown  open  from 
without. 

Mary,  who  was  half  facing  it,  suddenly  flushed  scarlet 
and  rose.  Those  sitting  near  her  turned  around. 

"  Why,  Beatrice  Mott !  "  exclaimed  Mary,  speaking  in  too 
low  a  voice  to  be  heard  by  any  save  those  near  her,  "  where 
in  the  world  did  you  come  from  at  this  time  of  night?  " 

A  young  woman,  who  seemed  a  blaze  of  color,  had  entered 
the  room.  The  door  swung  shut  behind  her  and  her  bold 
figure  seemed  to  start  out  from  the  bare,  cheerless  wall  of 
the  church  parlor. 

The  newcomer  surveyed  the  group  before  her  with 
scarcely-disguised  amusement.  Church  sociables  were  truly 
appropriate  gatherings  for  these  stagnating  town-folk. 
There  was  a  latent  distrust  and  disapproval  of  her,  in  turn, 
on  the  part  of  the  church  people,  but  Agnes  stood  up  with 
a  throb  of  interest  and  started  after  Fred  toward  the  girl 
in  the  doorway. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  33 

Beatrice  was  standing  still  waiting  for  him,  but  she  looked 
as  though  she  were  still  in  motion  because  of  the  forward  in 
clination  of  her  superb  head  and  shoulders.  The  black  hair 
and  red  tam-o'-shanter,  the  oriental  brilliance  of  her  face, 
her  smile  which  arrested  attention  because  of  the  whimsical 
short  upper  lip,  and  the  rich  red  scarf  flung  backward  across 
the  shoulders,  made  up  a  picture  Agnes  never  forgot.  Wild 
stories  were  afloat  about  Beatrice  Mott,  and  Agnes  acknowl 
edged  with  a  thrill  of  excitement  that  the  newcomer  looked 
as  though  one  and  all  might  be  understated. 


CHAPTER   III 

4  *  \XfHY  did  Beatrice  Mott  throw  over  Tom  Ballington 
and  engage  herself  to  Fred?  "  Agnes  asked  herself 
many  times  during  the  days  that  followed  the  church  sociable. 
The  vivid  figure  that  had  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the 
lecture-room  at  the  close  of  the  concert  persisted  in  her 
memory.  How  had  Fred  gotten  up  courage  to  offer  her  his 
poverty?  She  was  rich,  fond  of  excitement — above  all,  rest 
less.  Fred  was  quiet  and  without  ambition.  During  the  days 
that  Beatrice  stayed  in  Kent  Agnes  watched  the  pair  with 
puzzled  anxiety,  trying  to  arrange  an  equilibrium  between 
Fred's  stillness  and  the  energy  of  Beatrice.  She  gave  it  up 
finally,  comforting  herself  with  the  reflection  that  extremes 
were  said  to  get  on  better  together  than  two  of  the  same 
type. 

When  Beatrice  went  back  to  the  lake  she  took  Fred  with 
her  and  urgently  invited  Agnes  to  accompany  them.  When 
Agnes  reluctantly  declined,  Beatrice  added  with  a  sidelong 
glance  of  her  black  eyes,  "  Some  Ballingtons  might  come  out 
from  Winston ! " 

"  Tom?  "  asked  Agnes,  confused,  looking  from  Beatrice 
to  Fred.  Then  she  reddened,  avoided  Donald's  name,  and 
concluded,  "  Do  you  know  Mr.  Ferdinand  Ballington  ?  " 

Beatrice  laughed.  "  Know  Ferdinand  Ballington  ?  No 
body  knows  him  better."  Then  she  withdrew  her  scrutiny 
from  Agnes  and  smiled  at  Fred  as  she  continued,  "  But  he 
won't  be  down.  I  want  you  to  remember  him,  Fred.  He's 
the  one  man  in  the  world  you  never  need  be  jealous  of." 

Fred  looked  flattered  at  this  frank  recognition  of  his  pro 
prietorship  and  Beatrice  turned  back  to  Agnes.  "  I  was 
talking  about  Donald's  coming  out,"  she  said.  "  I'm  going 
over  to  get  your  mother  to  let  you  come." 

Agnes  had  longed  for  this  invitation,  but  she  had  little 

34 


THE     BALLINGTONS  35 

hope  that  her  mother  would  consent.  As  she  had  expected, 
Mrs.  Sidney  promptly  declined  when  Beatrice  spoke  to  her, 
and,  what  was  worse,  gave  her  reasons.  She  told  the  young 
heiress  good-humoredly,  but  without  mincing  matters,  that 
she  would  not  permit  her  daughter  to  visit  at  a  home  where 
young  girls  wearing  red  tam-o'-shanters  were  permitted  to 
come  without  escort  in  evening  trains  to  town. 

Agnes  left  the  room  in  embarrassment  while  Mrs.  Sidney 
and  Beatrice  were  talking.  She  was  mystified  when,  a  little 
later,  Beatrice  came  after  her,  threw  a  strong  and  supple 
arm  around  her  shoulder,  and  said  heartily,  "  I  tell  you,  I 
like  your  mother.  She's  the  j  oiliest  person  in  Kent.  My 
General  ought  to  know  her.  They  would  like  each  other. 
Don't  you  mind,  Agnes !  We'll  make  it  up  in  August.  Then 
I'm  coming  to  Kent  to  stay  weeks." 

Agnes  often  thought  of  this  promise  during  the  early 
summer,  for  by  a  coincidence  it  was  in  August  that  Mrs. 
Sidney  was  to  go  out  to  Iowa  to  stay  until  her  elder 
daughter,  Helen  Mabie,  should  be  up  again  from  her  coming 
confinement.  This  would  remove  parental  supervision,  for 
Agnes  never  thought  of  her  father  as  a  check,  and  would 
give  to  her  more  liberty  than  she  had  enjoyed  at  college. 

"  I  believe  you  want  me  gone !  "  Mrs.  Sidney  said  abruptly 
one  day,  stopping  in  her  preparations  and  scrutinizing 
Agnes. 

The  girl  never  had  stated  this  nakedly  to  herself,  and  she 
at  once  denied  it,  saying  she  was  glad  only  for  Helen's  sake. 

"  If  I  thought  you  would  neglect  your  father,  I  would 
never  stir  from  the  house,"  Mrs.  Sidney  went  on.  "  He  must 
have  his  regular  meals,  and  you  must  get  up  and  give  him 
a  lunch  when  he  has  to  go  out  at  night.  I've  done  it  for 
twenty  years  and  he  would  break  down  without  it.  I  want 
you  to  listen  to  what  I  am  saying,  Agnes.  You  don't  know 
what  a  heedless  girl  you  are.  But  I  believe  you  have  some 
love  in  your  heart  for  your  father,  and  I  count  on  that ! " 

"  Papa  and  I  will  get  along  all  right  together.  We  gen 
erally  do,"  answered  Agnes. 


36  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"  Yes,  because  he  always  lets  you  have  your  own  way.  But 
I've  always  been  here  to  do  the  unpleasant  things,  and  it's 
an  ungrateful  position,  I  can  tell  you.  Your  father  never 
crosses  you  himself,  but  you  should  hear  him  talk  to  me  at 
night.  Then  it's  '  Kate,  you  must  see  that  Agnes  does  this,' 
and  *  Kate,  you  must  take  care  that  Agnes  does  not  do  that.' 
He's  troubled,  too,  about  Beatrice's  wanting  Fred  to  leave 
the  bank.  You'll  find  it  a  very  different  thing  when  I'm  not 
here  to  bear  the  brunt  of  everything." 

"  Yes,  I  imagine  I  shall." 

"  I  won't  be  here  to  do  the  mending  while  you  smile  and 
pet  your  father,"  Mrs.  Sidney  went  on.  "  It's  very  easy  to 
bring  in  bouquets  of  flowers  after  somebody  else  has  swept 
and  dusted  and  put  things  to  rights.  I'll  work  all  day  and 
nobody  thanks  me.  But  your  father  and  you  will  bow  and 
scrape  to  each  other  over  a  pansy." 

"  Sometimes  I  wish  you  wouldn't  do  so  much  work  and  that 
we  could  have  a  breathing  spell  from  gratitude,"  Agnes  ex 
claimed  crossly. 

Mrs.  Sidney  turned  toward  her.  "  How  ungrateful  you 
are,  Agnes !  What  must  the  Lord  think  of  such  a  speech?  " 

A  grim  smile  came  to  Aunt  Mattie's  lips  as  she  sat  with 
her  hands  crossed  watching  the  two.  "  If  He  has  any  sense 
of  humor  I  think  He  might  be  entertained  by  this  conversa 
tion,  Kate,"  she  remarked. 

"  Mattie ! "  said  Mrs.  Sidney  to  the  widow,  "  I  don't  like 
the  tone  of  your  voice.  You  are  teaching  Agnes  irreverance. 
You  may  find  out,  when  it's  too  late,  that  the  Lord  does  laugh. 
*  He  that  sitteth  in  the  Heavens  shall  laugh.  The  Lord  shall 
have  them  in  derision.'  "  She  closed  her  lips  and  moved  about 
in  silence  for  some  moments. 

But  as  Agnes  was  leaving  the  room  she  looked  up  and 
spoke  once  more  in  a  prophetic  voice :  "  Experience  teaches 
a  dear  school.  I  guess  you'll  miss  mother  before  she  comes 
home  again." 

Before  Mrs.  Sidney  left  she  made  each  of  them  promise 
various  things.  Aunt  Mattie  promised  to  keep  sharp  watch 


THE     BALLINGTONS  37 

of  Stephen's  health,  and,  when  Agnes  went  out  evenings,  to 
sit  up  until  she  returned.  Dr.  Sidney  promised  that  he 
would  not  contribute  over  a  certain  amount  to  the  church 
collections ;  he  was  to  make  a  point  of  passing  in  and  out 
of  the  room  when  Agnes  received  callers ;  above  all,  he  was 
not  to  overdo  in  night  practice.  As  for  Agnes,  she  had 
many  instructions.  She  must  not  forget  to  comb  Aunt 
Mattie's  hair  and  to  help  her  dress  and  undress ;  she  was  to 
keep  the  boys  in  the  lane  from  playing  in  the  barn;  she  was 
to  keep  the  lamps  trimmed  and  filled,  and  the  best  linen 
packed  away. 

"  Only  if  we  entertain  I  will  use  the  best  linen,  then,"  the 
girl  excepted. 

"  You  mustn't  think  you  can  invite  in  the  town  to  eat  your 
father  out  of  house  and  home,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney  at  once.  "  I 
don't  like  all  these  new  friends  of  yours.  I  like  to  know  the 
parents  of  your  friends.  And  be  careful  about  this,  Agnes ! 
You  must  study  your  father's  appetite,  and  not  your  own. 
I  think  I've  seen  a  tendency  in  you  to  make  a  god  of  your 
belly." 

"  Why,  mamma !  You  know  it  is  you  who  are  always 
asking  people  in  and  cooking  good  things." 

"  When  it's  proper  I  should,"  Mrs.  Sidney  answered 
tersely. 

Above  all,  Agnes  was  to  look  after  her  father.  She  listened 
nonchalantly  to  her  list  of  duties,  and  felt  relieved  when 
her  mother  was  done.  She  helped  Mrs.  Sidney  pack  her 
satchel  very  graciously,  and  went  with  her  parents  to  the 
station. 

Mrs.  Sidney  left  in  the  evening.  She  would  not  reach  her 
daughter's  home  in  Iowa  till  the  following  afternoon.  It 
was  a  long  journey  for  the  woman  who  had  spent  her  life 
time  in  her  country  home,  but  she  started  out  with  charac 
teristic  resolution. 

Dr.  Sidney  saw  his  wife  into  her  compartment  and  then 
returned  to  Agnes.  They  stood  on  the  platform  till  the  train 
rolled  away,  then  turned  to  where  Peggy  was  waiting.  Agnes 


38  THE    BALLINGTONS 

was  surprised  to  find  her  father  so  quiet,  and  more  surprised 
at  the  depression  of  her  own  spirits.  As  her  father  helped 
her  out  from  the  buggy  at  their  doorstep,  and  she  glanced 
up  at  the  house,  it  looked  empty — foreboding. 

"  Here  is  the  key,"  said  Dr.  Sidney.  "  I  told  Mattie  not 
to  sit  up  for  us." 

Agnes  inserted  it  in  the  office  door  and  went  in.  She 
lighted  the  lantern,  went  out  through  the  kitchen  door, 
walked  down  the  garden  path  beneath  its  grape  arbor,  and 
joined  her  father  in  the  barn,  where  he  was  unharnessing 
Peggy. 

"  So  you  have  begun  to  take  care  of  me,"  he  said,  looking 
pleased.  "  Hold  the  lantern  on  this  side." 

When  the  task  was  over  and  they  went  inside,  Agnes 
brought  a  glass  of  milk  to  her  father,  gave  him  a  lighted 
lamp,  and  kissed  him  good-night.  "  You  call  me  in  the 
morning,  if  I  don't  wake  up  in  time,"  she  said. 

Then  she  went  to  bed,  and  in  the  quiet  of  the  dark  began 
to  plan  all  she  would  accomplish  during  her  two  months' 
regime  in  the  home. 


CHAPTER   IV 

A  GNES  found  the  housework  irksome  at  first.  Aunt  Mat- 
tie  could  not  assist  in  the  manual  part,  owing  to  the 
deformity  of  her  hands.  She  could,  however,  do  the  market 
ing,  answer  the  telephone,  and  attend  tolerably  well  to  the 
office.  To  be  sure,  in  this  latter  capacity  she  "  had  no 
knack,"  as  Mrs.  Sidney  once  said  impatiently.  She  would 
weakly  permit  the  patients  to  go  away  when  the  doctor  was 
absent,  whereas  Mrs.  Sidney  had  been  known  to  keep  them 
waiting  cheerfully  three  hours  for  the  physician.  In  the 
course  of  a  week,  however,  the  housekeeping  began  to  show 
some  system,  and  if  Beatrice  Mott  had  not  come  to  Kent 
the  summer  might  have  passed  with  fair  success. 

The  first  effect  of  Beatrice's  arrival  was  to  stimulate 
Agnes  to  an  unwonted  effort  for  appearances,  but  before  the 
guest  had  been  in  town  a  week  Agnes  not  only  lost  ambition, 
but  fell  away  from  her  ordinary  ideal  of  order.  Beatrice 
came  in  at  all  hours,  sometimes  scant  in  dress,  sometimes 
overdressed,  always  graceful  and  picturesque.  When  she  had 
time  to  wonder  about  it,  Agnes  used  to  ask  herself  why  this 
disorderly  girl  could  attract,  with  strands  of  hair  disdain 
ing  the  loose  coil,  her  silk  jersey  raveling,  and  her  French 
stockings  showing  holes  in  the  heels  as  she  drew  them  in 
and  out  of  her  pomponed  Turkish  slippers.  The  uncon 
sciousness  with  which  Beatrice  at  one  time  bore  her  disha 
bille,  at  another  a  mass  of  color  and  ornament,  lent  distinction 
even  to  her  shiftlessness.  People  in  her  company  were  apt 
to  let  themselves  go,  too,  feeling  something  large  and  friendly 
in  her  unrestraint.  Fits  of  tireless  energy  alternated  in  her 
with  days  of  languorous  indolence.  She  would  watch  Agnes 
lazily  for  half  a  day,  following  her  around  from  room  to 
room  and  talking  her  thoughts  aloud  while  Agnes  worked. 

39 


40  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Then  suddenly  she  would  beg  to  wash  dishes,  to  comb  Aunt 
Mattie's  hair,  to  sweep,  to  clear  the  table.  "  Why  don't  you 
work  quicker?  "  she  would  cry  to  Agnes,  shaking  the  nap 
kins  on  the  floor  and  rushing  to  the  kitchen  with  single 
dishes,  which  she  bestowed  upon  chair,  table  or  stove. 

So  far  as  the  ordinary  eye  could  observe,  Fred  took  his 
sweetheart's  moods  with  equanimity,  but  Agnes,  who  had 
read  from  childhood  his  silences,  nervous  acquiescences,  and 
sensitive  smiles,  knew  when  he  was  troubled.  She  knew  that 
he  frequently  was  hurt  by  Beatrice's  free  manners  and  conse 
quent  notorious  popularity.  More  than  once  Agnes  had 
detected  in  him  the  Sidney  brightness  of  eye  which  accom 
panied  suffering  of  the  mind.  She  found  herself  secretly 
questioning  whether  Beatrice  Mott  were  heartless  or  only, 
willful  and  thoughtless. 

One  morning  Beatrice  came  in  breezily  as  Agnes  was  mak 
ing  her  father's  bed. 

"  Agnes !  "  she  began  at  once,  dropping  her  tam-o'-shanter 
on  the  high  part  of  the  bureau  and  dropping  herself  on  the 
low  shelf  before  the  long  glass,  "  Tom's  written  to  me 
again ! "  and  she  pulled  an  envelope  from  her  pocket  as  she 
spoke. 

Agnes  looked  up  attentively  and  saw  a  pleasurable  excite 
ment  in  her  companion's  face.  It  was  the  spark  to  her  resolu 
tion  to  have  a  talk  with  Fred's  fiancee.  Her  nervousness  lest 
she  should  injure  instead  of  help  her  cousin's  cause  made  her 
speak  more  aggressively  than  she  had  planned.  "  Beatrice, 
you  ought  not  to  allow  this.  It's  not  honorable." 

Beatrice  waited  a  moment,  then  burst  out  laughing. 
"  What  a  saintly  engagement  you  and  Donald  will  have ! " 
she  exclaimed,  and  went  off  in  another  peal  of  merriment. 

Agnes'  color  heightened  as  she  turned  to  her  work  again. 
"  Your  hair  is  coming  down,"  she  remarked  in  her  mother's 
tone. 

Beatrice  reached  around,  tucked  in  her  hair  and  pinned 
it  carelessly.  Then  she  went  on :  "  Agnes,  you  don't  know 
anything  about  life.  You've  been  mewed  up  in  this  town  or 


THE    BALLINGTONS  41 

in  that  Presbyterian  boarding-school  ever  since  you  were 
born.  I've  traveled  all  over  and  have  had  a  good  many  ex 
periences.  If  I  want  to  have  a  little  fun,  there's  no  harm  in 
it.  It's  just  for  variety.  There  hasn't  been  a  single  thing 
going  on  here  for  three  weeks  but  congratulations  and  tally- 
hos  and  tennis-parties  and  billing  and  cooing.  This  Sunday- 
school  life  uses  me  up.  I've  got  to  have  a  change.  Tom 
Ballington  and  I  don't  care  a  snap  for  each  other,  but  we 
can  have  more  fun  carrying  on  than  any  two  people  who 
ever  have  lived.  We  make  an  artistic  success  of  it.  You 
know  if  we  cared  for  each  other  'twouldn't  be  any  more  fun 
to  flirt  with  him  than  it  is  with  Fred.  There's  always  a 
strife  between  Tom  and  me  to  see  which  can  flirt  with  more 
originality.  He's  the  smartest  thing  that  ever  lived.  He 
never  does  it  twice  alike.  He  keeps  me  up  to  my  best  level 
all  the  time.  Now,  Fred  is  as  good  as  gold,  and  I'm  going 
to  marry  him,  but  I  do  wish  he  didn't  say  the  same  things 
over  and  over.  He  hasn't  real  originality,  Fred  hasn't — 
but  he's  the  best  man  I  ever  knew." 

Agnes  listened  to  this  artless  exposition  with  indignant 
dismay.  It  was  followed  by  some  moments  of  silence.  Then 
she  said  gravely,  "  Beatrice,  if  three  weeks  of  Kent  are 
intolerable  to  you,  how  dare  you  think  of  passing  your  life 
here?" 

"Who?  I?  Pass  my  life  here?"  Beatrice's  startled 
tone  changed  to  one  of  stifled  amusement.  "  I  suppose  I 
could  join  Fred's  church  and  Mary  Bucher's  Dorcas  society. 
My  dear," — she  rose  and  went  over  to  place  her  hands  on 
Agnes'  shoulders — "  speaking  about  Mary  Bucher,  she's  in 
love  with  Fred  as  much  as  she  can  be.  Now  I  shouldn't  mind 
how  many  letters  he  got  from  her.  I'm  perfectly  willing  he 
should  go  in  and  have  a  good  time  with  her.  They  are  as 
safe  a  pair  as  Tom  and  I  are.  Fred  has  been  too  soft  and  I 
have  been  too  tame  with  him.  We'll  make  the  dullest  kind  of 
a  couple  if  we  don't  look  out." 

Agnes  reached  up  and  took  Beatrice's  hands  down  from 
her  shoulders.  As  she  looked  down  at  them  she  noticed  how 


42  THE     BALLINGTONS 

pale  and  weak  her  own  hands  looked  beside  the  darker,  heavier 
hands  of  Beatrice.  "  See  here,  Beatrice,"  she  said,  "  I  want 
Fred  to  be  happy.  You  don't  know  how  little  he's  had  in  his 
life,  as  I  do,  and  you  don't  know  how  these  flirtations  of 
yours  pain  him.  He  isn't  narrow.  He's — high-minded." 
Agnes  forced  herself  to  say  what  she  feared  would  incense 
Beatrice,  but  the  last  words  were  lost  on  the  girl. 

The  allusion  to  Fred's  meager  share  of  happiness  turned 
her  mobile  emotions  into  a  new  channel,  and  it  was  one  which 
must  have  been  familiar  to  them.  As  she  stood  perfectly 
still,  struck  by  Agnes'  voice  and  looking  down  at  her,  her 
face  quickly  sobered  and  she  was  betrayed  into  a  look  that 
was  new  to  Agnes,  but  which  carried  with  it  unmistakable 
self-revelation. 

"  Beatrice ! "  cried  Agnes  involuntarily,  infinite  relief  and 
joy  in  the  exclamation.  She  knew  now  that  Beatrice  loved 
Fred. 

With  a  stiff  military  wheel  Beatrice  turned  away  to  the 
window.  The  look  in  her  eyes,  the  gravity  of  her  silence, 
embarrassed  and  awed  Agnes. 

After  what  seemed  a  long  pause,  without  turning  around, 
Beatrice  spoke  in  a  voice  as  unfamiliar  as  her  manner.  It 
was  rough  and  wavered  curiously.  "  Nobody  but  an  ass 
would  have  wanted  to  keep  up  that  nonsense  with  Tom.  You 
don't  have  to  tell  me  Fred  has  had  a  lonesome  life.  A  boy 
who  has  earned  his  own  living  since  he  was  twelve  years  old ! 
He  looked  like  a  starved  dog  trying  not  to  beg  the  first  time 
I  saw  him." 

Beatrice  dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and  began  to 
tear  up  Tom's  letter  viciously,  first  lengthwise,  then  across. 
"  Don't  you  go  getting  a  wrong  idea  of  Tom.  He  does  this 
because  he  feels  mean  about  a  story  that's  gone  around  that 
he  jilted  me.  He's  a  straight  fellow.  He'd  rather  have 
people  think  that  I  had  jilted  him.  So  he  says  it  himself. 
There  isn't  any  truth  in  it  either  way." 

Beatrice  threw  the  fragments  of  Tom's  letter  in  a  minia 
ture  snow-storm  through  the  window.  "  As  soon  as  I've  mar- 


THE     BALLINGTONS  43 

ried  Fred  everything  will  be  all  right.  He  is  not  going  to  do 
a  tap  of  work  for  five  years.  I'm  going  to  take  him  out  of 
the  bank  where  he  handles  other  people's  money  year  in  and 
year  out,  and  give  him  enough  of  his  own  to  keep  him  busy 
spending  it.  We  are  going  abroad,  and  when  we  come  back 
we  shall  have  a  town  house  as  well  as  the  country  place  here. 
Fred  says  he  wants  to  earn  his  own  livelihood,  but  I  tell  him 
I  haven't  had  anybody  to  take  care  of  since  I  was  born,  and 
he's  never  had  anybody  to  take  care  of  him." 

Agnes  was  beginning  to  see  the  explanation  of  Beatrice's 
feeling  for  Fred.  There  was  an  imperative  need  in  her  large 
nature  of  giving.  She  was  not  satisfied,  as  her  father  was, 
to  give  money.  She  must  give  herself.  Fred  was  the  one 
who  had  most  appealed  to  her  on  her  generous  side,  while 
he  satisfied  her  pride  by  being  a  distinguished  object  upon 
whom  to  lavish  the  best  she  had  to  give.  On  the  whole,  Fred 
filled  a  larger  place  in  Beatrice's  heart  than  any  other  man 
could. 

Agnes'  relief  on  this  score,  however,  now  transferred  itself 
into  uncertainty  about  Fred.  Was  Beatrice  as  necessary 
to  him  as  he  to  her?  Agnes  was  skeptical  about  his  accepting 
as  much  as  Beatrice  wished  to  give  him. 

"  A  man  doesn't  want  a  woman  to  take  care  of  him.  He 
wants  to  take  care  of  her,"  she  said  gently. 

"  Nonsense !  "  returned  Beatrice,  her  mind  still  intent  upon 
the  future.  "  Look  at  your  father  and  mether." 

Agnes  was  startled.  Beatrice's  analysis  of  the  relative 
position  of  her  father  and  mother  in  the  family  shocked  her. 
She  always  had  thought  of  her  father  as  the  corner-stone  of 
the  home. 

"  My  father  has  always  cared  for  and  supported  his  fam 
ily.  He  has  done  the  man's  part,"  she  said  with  emphasis. 

"  Well,  you  must  excuse  me  for  speaking  plainly,  Agnes," 
returned  Beatrice  promptly,  "  but  I  don't  think  much  of  this 
matter  of  earning  money.  Your  mother  has  done  a  good  deal 
more.  She  has  run  the  home,  and  I  guess  the  church  and  a 
share  of  the  town,  and  taken  such  good  care  of  your  father 


44  THE    BALLINGTONS 

that  he  has  been  able  to  do  the  work  of  two  doctors.  Now, 
has  your  father  really  supported  the  family?  I  say,  non 
sense!  I'm  glad  you  brought  this  up.  I'm  going  to  use  it 
as  an  argument  to  Fred.  We'll  be  just  such  a  couple  as 
your  father  and  mother.  Good-by !  " 

With  this  prospect  of  ideal  domestic  life  before  her  mind, 
Beatrice  whirled  round  the  room  in  a  vortex  of  spreading 
skirts.  On  her  way  she  caught  up  her  tam-o'-shanter  and 
pinned  it  on  her  head.  "  I  can  hardly  wait  to  get  married 
when  I  think  of  the  gorgeous  family  we  two  are  going  to 
make!" 

As  she  reached  the  door  she  paused  on  the  threshold,  look 
ing  over  her  shoulder  impishly.  "  You  didn't  know  I  had  so 
much  sense,  did  you?  Neither  did  my  General.  He  said  he 
was  surprised  I  had  brains  enough  to  let  Tom  go  and  take 
Fred." 

Then  she  darted  out,  slamming  the  door  behind  her. 

Agnes  followed,  dizzy  with  her  guest's  evolutions  of  mind 
and  body.  When  she  reached  the  outside  door  Beatrice  was 
already  disappearing  round  the  corner  a  block  away.  She 
looked  after  the  retreating  figure,  saying  to  herself,  "  It's 
all  right!  She  has  a  warm  heart  after  all!  And  she  loves 
Fred.  All  she  wants  for  herself  is  to  be  able  to  do  for  him." 

She  waited  a  few  minutes  in  the  yard  before  returning  to 
her  work,  looked  up  into  the  heavens  where  it  seemed  as  if  a 
soft,  gray  swan  were  brooding  over  the  world,  listened  to  the 
twittering  of  the  birds,  watched  the  sunshine  filter  down 
through  the  elms  and  checker  the  walk  with  light  and  shade, 
felt  the  fall  coming  in  the  air.  Her  happiness  was  passing 
into  loneliness.  She  wished  her  father  would  come  home,  and 
when  she  went  into  the  house  at  last  she  let  her  work  go  while 
she  hunted  up  Aunt  Mattie  and  asked  her  to  come  down  and 
sit  in  the  kitchen  while  the  dinner  work  was  getting  under 
way. 

There  was  a  touch  of  tenderness  in  the  relation  of  the  two 
girls  henceforth.  Even  under  Beatrice's  most  volatile  moods 
Agnes  was  yet  aware  of  it.  It  salved  her  conscience  for 


THE    BALLINGTONS  45 

spending  more  and  more  time  in  the  whirl  of  social  life  whose 
center  was  Beatrice.  There  were  pricks  of  conscience,  in 
deed,  but  the  time  was  drawing  near  when  Beatrice  must  go 
and  when  Mrs.  Sidney  was  to  return.  It  was  the  only  chance 
she  ever  had  had  for  a  good  time  unchecked  by  surveillance, 
and  Agnes  told  herself,  with  a  thrill  of  lawlessness,  she  would 
let  herself  make  the  most  of  it. 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  due  time  the  telegram  came  announcing  the  birth  of 
Helen  Mabie's  second  son.  Agnes  sat  in  the  sitting- 
room,  writing  a  letter  of  congratulation  to  her  sister,  when 
Aunt  Mattie  came  into  the  room.  Agnes  looked  up  as  she 
entered  and  was  struck  with  the  frowsiness  of  her  aunt's 
hair. 

"  Aunt  Mattie ! "  she  exclaimed,  reddening,  "  how  long  is 
it  since  your  hair  has  been  combed?  " 

"  Two  days,"  replied  the  gaunt  figure  briefly. 

"  For  pity's  sake!    Why  didn't  you  remind  me?  " 

Agnes  gradually  had  slipped  into  shiftlessness  in  her 
household  duties.  Aunt  Mattie's  hair,  instead  of  being  ar 
ranged  in  the  morning,  had  been  twisted  up  at  any  time  of 
day  or  evening  when  it  happened  to  be  convenient,  and  finally 
had  been  neglected  altogether.  Agnes  had  fallen  into  the 
way  of  economizing  labor  by  letting  the  kitchen  fire  go  out, 
and  making  meals  of  cold  meats  and  vegetables,  served  with 
iced  tea  or  lemonade.  Some  steaks  and  chops  which  her 
father  had  brought  home  and  handed  her  occasionally  had 
spoiled  in  the  refrigerator.  Aunt  Mattie,  in  trying  to  clean 
the  ice  box  one  day,  had  found  them  and  thrown  them  out. 
When  Dr.  Sidney  at  last  had  expressed  a  wish  for  warm  food, 
Agnes  took  a  new  start.  She  soon  back-slid,  however,  into 
warming  canned  stuff  once  a  day  over  a  quick  wood-fire, 
shifting  the  one  hearty  meal  of  the  week  upon  Mrs.  Macy, 
who  came  every  Monday  to  wash. 

Now,  with  a  shock  at  her  forgetfulness,  she  sprang  up  from 
the  writing-desk  to  attend  to  the  hair-dressing. 

"  I  do  hope  you'll  forgive  me,"  she  said  as  she  untwisted 
the  tangled  coil.  "  I'll  never  forgive  myself." 

46 


THE     BALLINGTONS  47 

Her  aunt  did  not  reply  at  once. 

Then  she  said,  choosing  her  words,  "  When  does  this  young 
lady  leave  town?  " 

"  What  young  lady  ?  "     Agnes  felt  her  heart  sink. 

"  The  one  who  made  my  hair  look  like  a  Chinese  pagoda." 

"  In  about  a  week,  I  think." 

There  was  a  pause. 

Then  Agnes  added,  "  Why?  " 

"  Because  I  think  all  these  picnics  and  parties  worry  your 
father.  He  looks  thin  and  tired.  I  think  he  needs  regular 
hours  and  warm  meals." 

"  You  mean  I  ought  to  stay  at  home  and  attend  to  him, 

instead  of "  Agnes  broke  off.  She  was  glad  she  was 

behind  her  aunt,  for  she  knew  it  would  be  mutually  disa 
greeable  should  their  glances  meet. 

"  Yes,  my  girl.    That's  what  I  mean." 

"  Well — you're  right.     I  shan't  go  any  more." 

She  left  her  aunt  and  walked  away,  deterred  by  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation  from  further  talk.  Her  compunction 
was  aggravated  by  the  realization  that  Aunt  Mattie,  like 
her  father,  waited  till  a  situation  was  unendurable  before 
blaming  the  guilty.  She  finished  her  letter,  and  then,  con 
trary  to  her  engagement  to  spend  part  of  the  morning  at 
the  Buchers',  began  to  dust  the  room. 

When  Dr.  Sidney  returned  to  dinner  he  found  the  table 
bountifully  spread.  There  were  fresh  blossoms  in  the  room, 
and  a  quiet,  but  sweet  daughter,  in  a  clean  dress,  presided. 
Agnes  watched  her  father  and  was  struck  to  the  heart  in 
reading  the  surprise  and  pleasure  in  his  face,  though  he 
scarcely  tasted  the  daintily-served  food. 

When  she  had  done  her  dinner-work  she  went  to  her  piano. 
Then  she  realized  that  it  had  been  many  days  since  she  had 
practiced.  The  music  was  scattered  over  the  top  of  the 
instrument  as  it  had  been  left  since  her  last  party.  "  What 
a  looking  place ! "  she  exclaimed  to  herself,  shocked  at  the 
appearance  of  the  room,  and  instantly  picturing  her  mother's 
consternation  could  she  by  any  chance  become  aware  of  the 


48  THE     BALLINGTONS 

state  of  things.    "  It  looks  just  ready  for  the  ostriches  and 
satyrs  to  dance  here." 

As  she  gathered  up  the  loose  sheets  an  envelope  addressed 
to  "  Agnes  "  fell  from  between  the  leaves.  It  evidently  had 
been  placed  upon  the  rack  and  inadvertently  covered  up. 
She  recognized  her  father's  handwriting,  and  tore  open  the 
envelope  with  fingers  that  trembled.  Inside  a  folded  sheet 
of  paper  was  a  five-dollar  bill,  and  written  on  the  sheet  these 
words — "  To  the  sweet  singer.  From  Father."  The  paper 
was  dated  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  four  days  back.  Agnes 
dropped  her  music  with  a  sob,  and  sank  into  the  nearest 
chair,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands.  It  had  been  Dr. 
Sidney's  custom  to  put  missives  from  time  to  time  on  her 
piano,  and  they  occasionally  contained  money.  One  circum 
stance  only  was  now  in  the  girl's  mind,  and  it  dominated  her 
thoughts.  She  at  once  connected  the  bill  with  words  of  hers 
complaining  about  singing  in  the  Presbyterian  choir  without 

Pay- 
After  a  little  while,  she  stopped  crying  and  resumed  her 
work.     Presently  she  found  another  envelope  with  a  paper 
dated  two  days  later,  which  read: 

Will  my  dear  daughter,  when  she  has  a  little  time,  see  if  she  can 
arrange  the  inclosed  words  to  music,  and  sing  them  some  Sabbath  day 
in  church? 

There  was  inclosed  another  sheet  containing  the  words  of 
a  hymn. 

Through  the  remainder  of  the  afternoon  until  time  to 
prepare  supper  Agnes  worked  on  the  music  for  her  father's 
hymn.  Generally  she  preferred  secular  songs  to  sacred,  and 
she  had  wondered  rather  peevishly  why  her  father  persisted 
in  composing  hymns  when  he  could  write  poems  which  were 
clever  and  light-hearted.  Now,  some  hitherto-concealed 
spring  of  action  in  his  nature  attracted  her  notice.  What 
was  it  that  drew  that  gifted  mind  to  center  itself  upon  re 
ligious  thought?  Why  was  it  that  through  all  he  said  or 
wrote  or  did,  there  sounded  the  motif  of  another  world? 


THE     BALLINGTONS  49 

With  what  invisible  friend  was  he  communing  during  the 
early  morning  hours  which  he  spent  at  his  desk  or  during 
which  he  strolled  about  in  his  garden,  as  she  sometimes  had 
seen  him  do  through  her  window? 

Agnes  knew  that  Dr.  Sidney  had  returned  and  was  keeping 
his  office  hours,  but  she  did  not  attempt  to  speak  with  him 
then,  knowing  that  patients  were  coming  and  going.  She 
went  about  her  supper  preparations  as  noiselessly  as  possi 
ble,  and  when  the  meal  was  ready  she  went  to  her  father  with 
a  grace  that  was  new  since  morning.  Her  presence  seemed 
especially  sweet  to  the  doctor  as  she  bent  over  him  where  he 
lay  on  the  lounge  and  kissed  his  forehead. 

"  I  found  your  letters  on  the  piano  to-day,  papa.  Thank 
you  so  much  for  the  money.  I  shall  sing  your  words  on 
Sunday." 

As  Agnes'  gaze  met  that  of  her  father  there  occurred  one 
of  those  flashes  of  understanding  which  have  it  in  them  to 
avert  the  tragedy  of  a  life.  It  was  as  though  to  one  who  had 
given  his  life  for  an  ideal  too  exalted  for  his  world  to  com 
prehend  there  suddenly  had  appeared  his  beloved  disciple, 
aroused  from  sleep  and  come  to  watch  with  him. 

Neither  Dr.  Sidney  nor  Agnes  spoke  as  they  went  in  to 
gether  to  supper.  Before  it  was  over  Dr.  Sidney  excused 
himself  and  went  back  to  the  lounge. 

Agnes  was  not  quite  through  with  the  dishes  when  Beatrice 
and  Fred  came  in.  She  heard  the  sounds  of  merriment  in  the 
hall  and  met  her  guests  with  an  unusual  dignity.  They  re 
mained  only  a  few  minutes  and  asked  Agnes  to  go  with  them 
to  a  mesmerist's  exhibition  the  following  evening.  The  girl 
had  little  heart  for  amusement,  but  she  accepted  the  invi 
tation,  as  it  was  to  be  Beatrice's  last  day  in  Kent.  The  two 
went  off,  talking  and  laughing.  As  Agnes  closed  the  door 
behind  them  she  heard  Fred  trip  on  the  gravel  walk,  heard 
Beatrice's  mocking  laugh,  a  little  scuffle  and  then  receding 
voices. 

She  finished  her  work  quietly,  and  returned  to  the  parlor 
with  a  book  and  a  letter  from  Miriam  Cass.  Suddenly  she 


50  THE     BALLINGTONS 

heard  her  father's  footsteps.  He  was  walking  back  and  forth 
in  the  sitting-room  beyond.  As  he  passed  and  re-passed  the 
door  of  the  parlor,  she  was  struck  with  the  pallor  of  his  face, 
the  weariness  of  his  movements.  He  did  not  notice  her  until 
she  spoke  to  him. 

Then  he  turned,  a  flash  of  surprise  on  his  face.  He  joined 
her  at  once.  "  I  thought  I  heard  you  go  out  with  a  party 
of  young  people,"  he  said. 

"  No.    It  was  only  Beatrice  and  Fred." 

He  paused  in  his  walk,  stood  before  her,  and  said,  looking 
down,  "  I  am  glad  you  did  not  go  away  without  speaking  to 
me." 

Her  heart  smote  her,  for  she  rarely  had  been  at  home  of 
late. 

"  You  look  worried,  papa,"  she  said.  "  Is  there  any  trou 
ble  on  your  mind  ?  " 

He  walked  across  the  room,  paused,  and  said  with  peculiar 
earnestness,  "  I  am  convinced  that  something  will  happen  to 
your  mother.  I  wish  I  could  go  for  her.  But  I  have  not  the 
strength." 

Agnes  was  alarmed.  "What  do  you  mean,  papa?"  she 
asked,  hastily  putting  down  her  book  and  half  rising. 
"  Mamma  is  well.  She  writes  that  she  is  perfectly  well. 
Have  you  heard  anything?  " 

"  No.  I  have  that  feeling."  There  was  uncontrollable 
anxiety  in  his  voice  and  manner. 

So  the  soldier,  struck  in  battle,  as  he  falls,  sees  with  his 
darkening  eyes  the  sword  that  hangs  over  some  unconscious 
head  far  away.  The  blow  falls  there.  He  passes  into  peace. 

Agnes  made  an  effort  to  smile.  "  There  is  nothing  to  make 
you  feel  like  that,  papa." 

The  weary  steps  began  again. 

"  In  the  second  drawer  of  my  desk,"  said  Dr.  Sidney 
presently,  "  there  are  some  notes  which  I  have  written  from 
time  to  time.  Most  of  them  have  been  taken  down  early  in 
the  morning  before  the  rest  of  the  house  was  astir.  Perhaps 
some  time  you  will  care  to  read  them.  Not  now !  They  may 


THE     BALLINGTONS  51 

bring  you  closer  to  your  father's  thoughts ;  when  you  grow 
older  and  have  aches  of  your  own  in  the  head  and  the 
heart  (for  they  will  come),  they  may  help  you  a  little.  There 
are  many  things  I  have  wanted  to  say  to  you,  but  youth  has 
its  rights,  and  I  always  have  believed  that  the  soul  must  first 
hunger  and  thirst  after  righteousness  before  it  can  be  filled. 
That  day  will  come." 

"  Yes.    I  know." 

"  There  are  qualities  in  my  sweet  daughter's  disposition," 
he  said,  smiling  a  little,  "  which  I  notice  now  and  then,  and 
recognize  as  having  come  from  me.  They  are  not  bad  quali 
ties,  but  they  need  others  along  with  them,  and  I  hope  that 
with  my  weakness  she  may  develop  something  of  her  mother's 
firmness  of  character." 

Agnes  tried  hard  to  keep  back  the  tears  that  scalded  her 
eyeballs.  "  Don't !  Don't,  papa,"  she  cried.  "  I  didn't  get 
any  weakness  from  you.  I  tell  you — never  from  you !  " 

He  came  back  and  sat  down  near  her,  and  held  up  the 
volume  of  Cowper  which  he  had  in  his  hand.  "  These  are 
poems  by  a  man  who  was  heart-sick  over  all  the  pain  and 
sorrow  in  the  world.  It  unsettled  his  mind  at  last.  He  once 
took  a  wounded  hare  and  tended  it,  saying  that  one  creature 
out  of  all  the  myriads  should  be  cared  for." 

Agnes  did  not  reply  at  once.  Presently  she  exclaimed, 
"  What  is  it  all  for,  papa?  " 

"  Many  a  man  has  wished  for  the  understanding  heart," 
the  doctor  returned  thoughtfully.  "  But  there  is  a  better 
gift.  David  knew  it  when  he  prayed  '  Create  in  me  a  clean 
heart,  O  God ! '  " 

After  a  moment's  silence  his  face  changed  and  he  began  to 
speak  with  unusual  rapidity,  following  out  the  new  train  of 
thought.  One  always  was  conscious  of  a  dramatic  intensity 
beneath  his  somewhat  austere  manner,  but  to-night  it  trans 
formed  him.  His  language  gradually  took  on  the  glory  of 
the  Hebrew  prophets.  Many  silent  thoughts  of  his  life 
welled  up  into  words.  He  seemed  to  forget  Agnes'  presence, 
to  be  communing  with  the  spirit  of  the  unseen  world.  Agnes 


52  THE     BALLINGTONS 

felt  an  awe  of  her  father  stealing  over  her  as  she  realized 
how  thin  was  the  veil  that  divided  him  from  the  eternal.  It 
was  flashed  upon  her  that  his  face  always  was  turned  away 
from  time  with  its  accidents  towards  the  light  and  the  pro 
found  brooding  love  which  awaited  him  yonder.  It  was  as 
though  some  gentle  denizen  of  boundless  ether  were  caught 
here  and  struggled,  patient  and  undiscouraged,  to  wear  its 
fetters  through  and  soar  again. 

When  he  ceased,  it  was  with  the  same  suddenness  with 
which  he  began.  The  two  sat  for  some  time  in  silence.  The 
silence  seemed  to  grow  into  an  immensity  of  crowding  intui 
tions  and  suggestions.  Some  of  them  the  girl  felt  that  she 
must  tell  her  father,  but  when  she  tried  to  speak  she  did  not 
know  how. 

"  Papa,  something  has  happened  to  me,"  she  stammered 
at  last.  "  I  never  felt  before  how  unreal  the  things  are  which 
I  have  most  longed  for.  I  wish  I  could  live  in  your  world — 
with  you." 

The  look  which  accompanied  what  she  said,  as  well  as  the 
words  themselves,  told  the  doctor  of  the  understanding  that 
had  come  to  her. 

"  You  will  live  in  that  world  more  and  more,"  he  said,  the 
brilliance  of  his  eyes  settling  into  the  usual  quiet  luminous- 
ness.  He  took  up  his  volume  of  Cowper,  but  did  not  open  it 
at  once.  Presently  he  added,  "  And  though  in  a  different 
way  from  what  you  think,  I  doubt  not  with  me."  Then  he 
opened  his  book,  an  expression  of  peace  upon  his  face. 

As  his  daughter's  eyes  lingered  upon  him  an  answering 
peace  came  into  her  heart,  but  it  was  accompanied  by  a  feel 
ing  of  foreboding  wherein  solemnity  and  aspiration  and  re 
nunciation  were  mingled. 

They  spent  the  remainder  of  the  evening  in  silence. 

At  last  the  doctor  rose,  walked  to  the  piano,  and  opened 
the  hymn-book  on  the  rack.  Agnes  smiled  and  complied  at 
once  with  his  unspoken  request  for  her  to  sing.  He  selected 
a  verse  here  and  there,  as  was  his  custom,  and  she  sang 
them. 


THE     BALLINGTONS  53 

Last  of  all  he  turned  to  his  favorite  hymn,  following  the 
words  through  in  his  Cowper  as  she  sang: 

"  God  moves  in  a  mysterious  way 
His  wonders  to  perform; 
He  plants  His  footsteps  in  the  sea, 
And  rides  upon  the  storm." 

He  stopped  her  before  she  went  on  to  the  second  stanza. 

"  That  first  stanza  is  one  of  the  finest  ever  written,"  he 
said.  "  The  rest  is  not  equal  to  it.  The  grandeur  is  gone. 
Sing  that  one  over." 

And  she  sang  it  again. 

When  she  turned  on  her  stool  she  was  arrested  by  the 
radiance  of  her  father's  face. 

"  We  soon  shall  have  your  mother  back,"  he  said,  and  he 
bent  down  and  kissed  her,  adding,  "  The  Lord  has  better 
things  in  store  for  you  than  you  know." 


CHAPTER  VI 

]\/f  RS.  SIDNEY,  in  a  blue  and  white  gingham  dress,  was 
washing  dishes  in  the  kitchen  of  the  Mabies'  country 
home.  From  time  to  time  she  moved  about  the  room  to  pick 
up  a  stray  dish.  At  last  they  all  were  clean  except  one  plate, 
which  contained  the  remains  of  tidbits  that  had  been  sent  to 
Helen  during  her  illness. 

Mrs.  Sidney  stood  in  indecision  with  this  plate  in  her  hand, 
when  Pleasant  Mabie  came  into  the  room.  He  came  in  on 
tiptoe,  and  shut  the  door  noiselessly,  for  he  had  been  well 
trained  as  to  how  to  deport  himself  in  a  house  with  babies. 
A  small  mongrel  dog  with  a  clipped  tail  came  close  at  his 
heels. 

As  she  saw  who  it  was,  Mrs.  Sidney  suddenly  held  out  the 
plate.  "  Here,  Pleasant !  "  she  said  briskly,  "  eat  this !  It's 
real  good.  I  want  to  wash  the  dish." 

Mr.  Mabie  took  the  dish  awkwardly  and  ate  the  contents. 

Then  Mrs.  Sidney  washed  the  plate,  and  after  putting 
away  her  pans,  went  into  the  dining-room.  Here  Helen 
Mabie  was  sitting  in  a  rocking  chair,  her  sleeping  baby  in 
her  lap.  Three  little  children  ranging  from  five  to  two  were 
playing  with  a  box  of  toys  on  the  floor. 

"Where's  grandma's  baby?"  said  Mrs.  Sidney  in  a  full 
buoyant  tone,  patting  the  smallest  of  the  three  on  the  head 
as  she  passed. 

"  What's  Kitty  doing?  "  she  asked,  looking  at  the  older 
girl,  who  was  standing,  toys  in  hand,  and  who  looked  as 
though  she  had  been  interrupted. 

Kitty's  manner  was  theatrical,  and  she  threw  out  her  arms, 
as  she  answered  that  she  was  burying  her  doll,  with  a  pas 
sionate  abandon  which  would  have  done  honor  to  Niobe. 

"  Helen,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney,  "  that's  the  smartest  child  I 

54 


THE    BALLINGTONS  55 

ever  saw.  You'll  be  a  proud  woman  some  day.  I  hope  you'll 
appreciate  her." 

"  My  kindergarten  journal  says  it's  better  not  to  let 
children  know  about  death,"  returned  Helen  musingly. 

"  Nonsense ! "  said  Mrs.  Sidney,  rocking ;  "  I  don't  ap 
prove  of  any  new-fangled  ideas  that  start  children  in  life 
on  a  false  basis.  I've  meant  to  speak  to  you  about  that 
kindergarten  paper  of  yours  before.  You'd  put  in  your  time 
better  if  you'd  read  your  Bible,  and  use  your  common  sense." 

"  It  gives  me  a  good  many  valuable  suggestions,  mother." 

"  What  suggestions  has  it  given  you  ?  "  asked  her  mother. 

"  Well,  teaching  by  object-lessons.  It  gives  a  definite 
picture  to  the  mind." 

"  Of  course  it  gives  a  definite  picture  to  the  mind,"  an 
swered  Mrs.  Sidney  disdainfully,  "  and  that's  the  reason 
Isaiah  walked  naked  before  the  children  of  Israel,  and  the 
reason  Ezekiel  lay  on  his  side  for  four  hundred  and  thirty 
days.  That's  no  new  idea.  No,  sir!  What  mothers  need 
is  to  read  their  Bibles.  You  can't  expect  to  bring  up  your 
children  in  the  way  they  should  go,  without  the  help  of  God. 
I've  been  sorry  to  see  that  you've  given  up  church-going. 
You  can't  expect  God  to  bless  you  if  you  go  on  like  this." 

Helen  turned  her  face  away,  and  looked  wistfully  out 
through  the  window.  "  We  are  all  so  tired  on  Sunday,"  she 
said  gently.  "  And  it's  such  a  long  way  to  town.  The  horses 
are  tired,  too." 

"  Pleasant  got  in  to  see  the  seven  Blondin  sisters,  though," 
said  Mrs.  Sidney,  looking  sternly  at  the  kitchen  door,  "  and 
you  went  to  hear  that  Italian  man  sing.  You  didn't  either 
of  you  feel  too  tired,  then." 

Helen  looked  through  the  window  some  moments  longer, 
and  then  turned  her  delicate  face  toward  her  mother,  with 
a  look  of  care-worn  tenderness  which  would  have  come  more 
naturally  from  the  mother  to  the  daughter. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  with  a  swift  smile  whose  sweetness 
had  pierced  Mrs.  Sidney's  heart  years  ago  when  she  saw  it 
in  a  darker,  sterner  face,  "  something  of  the  pines  and  rock- 


56  THE     BALLINGTONS 

ribbed  mountains  of  Vermont  was  born  in  you.  I  think  it  is 
easier  for  you  mountain  people  to  be  good  than  it  is  for  us 
out  here  on  the  plains.  Sometimes  I  wish " 

Her  thin  hands  clasped  each  other  tensely,  as  she  looked 
out  again  over  the  wide  level  view  to  be  seen  from  the  window. 
But  her  voice  sank,  the  hands  came  apart  again,  and  she  did 
not  finish  her  sentence. 

"Is  our  God  only  a  God  of  the  hills,  then?"  said  Mrs. 
Sidney,  lowering  her  knitting  and  eyeing  Helen  over  her 
spectacles,  a  posture  which  lends  authority  to  far  less  con 
vincing  gazes  than  those  of  Mrs.  Sidney.  "  You  aren't 
thinking  of  encouraging  Pleasant  to  go  out  to  that  mining 
town  in  the  Rockies,  are  you  ?  "  she  added  keenly,  before  her 
daughter  could  reply.  "  If  Pleasant  could  get  into  a  worse 
place,  he'll  be  sure  to  do  it ! " 

"  Oh,  no.    I  wouldn't  want  to  go  there." 

"  Did  you  tell  Pleasant  so?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Well,  I'm  glad  you  did.  I  don't  like  the  look  of  that 
mining  town.  And  I  don't  like  the  look  of  the  hills  either, 
with  all  those  prospecting  holes  dug  along  like  so  many 
graves.  It  looks  as  if  nature  had  broken  out  with  a  malig 
nant  disease." 

Helen  smiled  again.  This  time  it  was  her  mother's  smile, 
open,  cheerful,  free  from  sublety,  free  from  charm. 

"  I  was  always  glad,"  went  on  Mrs.  Sidney,  "  that  Moses 
talked  about  the  brooks  of  water,  and  wheat,  and  barley,  and 
figs,  and  oil,  and  honey  in  the  promised  land,  before  he  said 
anything  about  the  iron  and  brass.  He  put  those  last." 

Pleasant's  stealthy  step  and  the  dog's  patter  were  now 
heard  approaching  the  door  into  the  dining-room  from  the 
kitchen,  and  Mrs.  Sidney  abruptly  changed  the  conversation. 

"  Here,  Kitty !  Come  here.  Grandma's  got  something 
for  you,"  she  said,  drawing  some  candy  hearts  out  of  her 
pocket.  As  Kitty  came  up  to  her  Mr.  Mabie  entered  the 
room. 

"  Please  don't  give  them  candy,"  he  said,  lifting  his  hand 


THE    BALLINGTONS  57 

with "  a  deprecating  gesture.  "  I  don't  think  it's  good  for 
them." 

"  Nonsense !  Sweets  are  healthy  for  children.  Baby 
want  one,  too  ?  "  She  changed  her  voice  with  the  last  word, 
and  added  with  a  beaming  smile  as  she  made  eyes  at  the  little 
ones,  "  Yes,  grandma  will  give  her  babies  goodies." 

Mr.  Mabie  smiled  painfully,  but  he  did  not  say  anything. 
He  went  into  his  bed-room  and  came  out  presently  with  his 
shaving  materials.  He  then  began  to  shave  himself  before 
the  mahogany-framed  looking-glass  on  the  wall.  During 
this  operation  there  was  comparative  quiet  in  the  room. 
Helen  talked  to  him  a  little  from  time  to  time,  receiving  mean 
ing  grunts  in  answer.  Mrs.  Sidney  rocked  back  and  forth, 
knitting  and  occasionally  darting  glances  at  her  son-in-law. 

When  Pleasant  gathered  up  his  paraphernalia,  returned 
to  the  bed-room,  and  closed  the  door,  Mrs.  Sidney  looked  up 
sternly  at  Helen.  "  Are  those  Blondin  sisters  in  town  yet  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  may  depend  upon  it,  Helen,  a  man  who  gets  himself 
up  as  sleek  as  Pleasant  does,  when  it  isn't  a  habit  with  him, 
has  got  something  in  the  wind.  It's  wonderful  the  way  a 
man  can  run  down  when  he  gets  away  from  civilization,  and 
there's  no  end  in  the  downward  career  of  a  man  who's  only 
worked  upon  by  outside  influences.  The  world  can't  hold  him 
up.  Nothing  but  the  Holy  Ghost  in  his  heart  can  do  it. 
What  is  Pleasant  going  into  town  for,  anyway?  Jenkins 
did  your  marketing  for  you  this  week." 

"  There  are  a  number  of  little  things  he  wants  to  do.  He 
wants  to  get  some  chloroform  to  kill  the  kittens." 

"  Why  doesn't  he  gird  up  his  loins  like  a  man  and  drown 
the  kittens?"  returned  Mrs.  Sidney  scornfully. 

"  These  are  the  kittens  of  that  favorite  Maltese  cat  of  his. 
We  all  feel  tenderly  about  killing  the  offspring  of  those  we 
love,"  said  Helen,  and  she  thought  of  her  husband's  visionary 
schemes,  which  she  always  was  chloroforming  as  gently  as 
possible. 


58  THE     BALLINGTONS 

"  Is  that  all  he's  going  for?  " 

"  No.  He  told  Hetty  he'd  buy  her  a  new  hat.  She  likes 
his  taste." 

Hetty  was  the  maid  of  all  work  of  the  Jenkins  family,  the 
nearest  neighbors,  whom  they  had  shared  with  Helen  since 
the  baby  came. 

"  So  it's  a  hat  that  Hetty  and  he  have  been  getting  their 
heads  together  over?  I  wondered  what  important  undertak 
ing  Pleasant  had  got  hold  of  now.  Well,  if  that  isn't  ridicu 
lous!" 

"  It's  a  little  thing  to  give  him  pleasure,  mother,"  said 
Helen  simply.  "  If  it  gives  him  variety  and  cheers  him  up, 
why  should  I  take  the  gratification  away  from  him?  He 
doesn't  get  much  pleasure.  A  farmer's  life  is  a  hard  one." 

"  Let  him  get  along  with  your  associates,"  responded  the 
older  woman  uncompromisingly. 

"  I  haven't  any,"  answered  Helen,  unsuspiciously  falling 
into  the  trap. 

"  Yes,  that's  just  it.    You  rather  get  along  without." 

Both  women  looked  toward  the  bed-room  door,  at  which  Mr. 
Mabie  had  unexpectedly  appeared.  He  had  on  a  clean  shirt 
and  a  starched  collar,  but  he  had  not  yet  put  on  his  coat. 
He  held  out  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Sidney,  saying  rather  sheepishly, 
"  I  just  found  this  in  my  coat  pocket.  I  got  it  last  week 
when  I  went  to  town.  Guess  I  must  have  forgot  to  give  it 
to  you." 

"  It's  from  Stephen,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney,  catching  the 
envelope  from  his  hand  and  tearing  it  open.  "  Here ! 
There's  something  for  you,  Helen.  Some  poetry,  I  guess. 
Keep  still,  Kitty.  I  want  to  read  a  letter.  Pleasant,  send 
that  dog  out  into  the  kitchen."  She  looked  resentfully  after 
the  cur,  continuing,  "  I  can't  stand  it  to  hear  that  dog's 
toe-nails  on  the  bare  floor."  Then  she  adjusted  her  spec 
tacles  and  began  to  read.  Presently  she  got  up  unsteadily 
and  left  the  room. 

She  returned  when  the  baby  wakened,  with  a  shining  face. 

"  I  was  reading  over  your  father's  letters  when  I  was  in  my 


THE     BALLINGTONS  59 

room,  Helen,"  she  said  as  she  laid  the  cloth  on  the  table. 
"  There's  been  so  much  going  on  these  last  six  weeks,  I 
haven't  had  a  chance  to  call  my  breath  my  own.  It  seems 
to  me  I  see  new  things  in  his  letters  every  time  I  read  them." 

She  passed  into  the  kitchen,  and  came  back  soon  with  the 
plates. 

"  Oh,  what  a  wealth  of  love  his  heart  contains !  "  she  said. 

Again  the  large  figure  disappeared.  Back  it  came  laden 
with  a  tray  of  dishes. 

"  There  was  one  passage  which  quite  struck  me  in  the  last 
letter.  I  read  it  while  I  was  dressing  the  baby,  and  I  was 
so  flurried,  I  didn't  take  it  all  in." 

The  voice  died  away  in  the  kitchen.  Then  came  the  rattle 
of  knives  and  forks. 

"  He  said  he'd  been  looking  over  his  old  college  mementoes 
and  letters  in  the  hair-trunk  up  in  the  attic,"  said  Mrs.  Sid 
ney,  returning,  "  and  he  came  across  a  picture  of  his  first 
sweetheart — a  girl  he  loved  when  he  first  went  to  Williams." 

"  How  can  mother  tell  of  it  ?  "  thought  Helen  during  the 
pause. 

"  And  he  told  how  pretty  and  bright  she  was,  and  he  said 
that  when  he  saw  the  little  daguerreotype  it  brought  it  all 
back  again." 

Another  disappearance. 

"  And  he  went  on  to  say  that  it  made  him  feel  young  again, 
and  he  asked  me  to  forgive  him  for  remembering,  but  it  fairly 
made  him  smell  the  little  wild  things,  and  see  the  poplar  trees 
sway,  and  the  way  the  dragon-flies  darted  over  the  trout 
stream." 

Mrs.  Sidney  halted  by  the  kitchen  door,  her  hands  upon 
her  hips. 

"  And  he  said  that  the  little  picture  was  so  sweet  to  him 
that  he  was  going  to  get  a  little  frame  for  it,  and  hang  it  up 
in  his  office,  and — and " 

"  Don't  cry,  mother.  Don't !  "  exclaimed  Helen,  half  ris 
ing.  "  I  believe  it  was  all  a  joke.  Father  never  loved  any 
body  but  you.  Anyhow,  that  was  thirty-five  or  forty  years 


60  THE    BALLINGTONS 

*» 

ago.  If  you  could  see  the  fat  old  thing  now,  you  wouldn't 
care." 

Mrs.  Sidney's  weeping  changed  into  hysterical  laughter. 
She  sat  down  and  held  her  hands  to  her  sides. 

"  Do  control  yourself,  mother,"  said  Helen  in  distress. 
"  Father  says  you'll  break  a  blood  vessel  laughing  some 
day." 

"  But  he  said,  Helen — he  said  he  wanted  to — to  get  it  in 
a  little  frame  because — because " 

"  Because  what?  " 

"  Because  he  wanted  his  children  to  know — how  their 
mother  looked  when  she  was  young ! " 

Helen  did  not  laugh.  She  hardly  realized  the  incongruity 
of  her  effort  to  console  her  mother.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
a  hovse  far  down  the  road  coming  toward  the  house  at  great 
speed.  She  had  been  longing  for  some  advent  in  that  long 
white  road.  It  had  come,  and  it  struck  a  chill  to  her  heart. 

"  It  is  John  Cummings,"  she  said.    "  He  is  coming  here." 

Mrs.  Sidney  hurried  to  the  window. 

"  He  is !  "  she  cried  after  a  moment.  "  He's  got  a  tele 
gram.  Your  father's  sick.  Oh,  I  never  ought  to  have  come 
away  and  left  him." 

Mr.  Mabie  came  out  of  his  room  upon  hearing  their  excited 
voices.  He  held  a  set  of  papers  containing  statistics  in  re 
gard  to  the  adulteration  of  sugar,  which  he  was  preparing 
for  publication  in  the  town  paper.  He  started  leisurely 
toward  the  door,  but  by  the  time  he  reached  it  Mrs.  Sidney 
was  back  with  the  telegram  in  her  hands. 

Her  own  eyes  took  in  the  message  before  the  sheet  was 
fairly  opened,  and  she  read  it  aloud: 

Father   very  ill.    Come   immediately.    Bring   Helen   if   possible. 

AGNES. 

"  What  time  is  it?  "  asked  Mrs.  Sidney,  looking  at  the 
clock. 

"  Helen  can't  go,"  said  Pleasant,  disregarding  the  time. 


THE     BALLINGTONS  61 

"  The  cow  money  has  got  to  go  on  the  mortgage.  She's  too 
weak,  anyway." 

A  strange  expression  flitted  across  Helen's  face,  but  there 
was  no  reproof  in  it.  She  knew  too  well  the  bitterness  of 
poverty  that  shuts  in  the  sentiments  of  the  heart,  and  then 
gnaws  their  life  away.  Pleasant's  reference  to  the  money 
necessary  for  her  journey  fell  upon  ears  that  were  listening 
to  a  remote  voice  which,  in  the  light  of  this  news,  was  tinged 
with  indefinable  melancholy. 

"  I  have  had  an  inclosure  from  father's  letter,"  she  said. 
"  It  is  a  draft  for  fifty  dollars  which  he  says  came  to  him 
unexpectedly.  He  told  me  to  keep  it  for  an  emergency.  It 
seemed  to  me  just  now  that  I  could  hear  him  telling  me  to 
come.  I'll  take  the  cow  money,  and  Pleasant  can  cash  this." 

"  Oh ! "  said  Mr.  Mabie,  and  he  appeared  relieved  about 
his  wife's  weakness. 

"  It's  half-past  eleven,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney,  who  had  been 
listening  with  a  pang,  wondering  if  her  husband  had  antici 
pated  this  emergency.  "  That  train  goes  at  two." 

"  Can't  make  it,"  volunteered  Mr.  Mabie.  "  It  would  take 
an  hour  and  a  half  to  drive  to  town  with  a  good  horse.  Bet 
sey  is  lame  and  I  was  calculating  to  drive  her  in  slow  and 
get  the  veterinary  to  look  at  her.  All  the  others  are  at  the 
mill." 

"  We  have  got  to  make  it ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sidney  in 
stantly.  "  Jenkins'  horses  aren't  at  the  mill." 

"  Mebbe  Jenkins  might  let  me  take  Spitfire  if  I  explained. 
I'll  run  over  and  ask  if  it'll  be  convenient." 

"  You  tell  him  we've  got  to  have  her  whether  it'll  be  con 
venient  or  not ! "  cried  Mrs.  Sidney  from  the  kitchen  door 
way,  where  she  had  rushed  to  see  to  her  dinner.  "  And  don't 
you  stop  to  explain,  either !  " 

"  Mebbe  I'd  better  bring  Hetty  back,"  said  Pleasant, 
sticking  his  head  in  the  door  again,  but  not  waiting  for  an 
answer. 

"Do  you  think  Pleasant  and  Hetty  can  take  care  of  the 
other  three  ?  "  asked  Helen.  "  I'll  have  to  take  the  baby,  of 


62  THE     BALLINGTONS 

course."  She  looked  anxiously  at  her  mother,  who  was  hur 
riedly  putting  food  on  the  table. 

"  I  guess  they  can.  We  can  generally  do  what  we've  got 
to  do.  Sit  right  down  here  and  eat.  I'm  going  upstairs  to 
pack.  When  you  get  through,  you  can  dress  the  baby.  Then 
I'll  come  down  and  help  you.  Pleasant  can  eat  after  he  gets 
back  from  the  station." 

She  left  the  room,  but  was  back  again  within  half  an  hour, 
dragging  a  handbag. 

"  I  packed  your  things  and  mine  in  my  trunk,"  she  said, 
"  and  the  baby's  things  in  this  bag.  Here's  your  dress !  " 
She  sat  down  with  a  groan. 

"  Eat  something,  mother,"  said  Helen,  taking  the  garment. 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  will.  Never  mind  the  dishes.  Pleasant  can 
clear  them  up  afterwards." 

When  everything  was  ready,  the  clock-hand  pointed  to 
half -past  twelve,  and  Pleasant  had  not  returned. 

"  I  wish — I  do  wish  I  could  be  in  two  places  at  once,"  said 
Mrs.  Sidney.  "  I'd  have  had  that  horse  here  half  an  hour 
ago.  There  he  is  now.  Way  down  by  the  frog-pond.  Helen, 
we've  got  time  enough  to  pray.  Kneel  down  here  by  me. 
You  kneel  down,  too,  Kitty.  Nellie,  put  that  fork  down.  Put 
it  down,  I  say!  Now,  Helen.  Just  tell  the  Lord  to  keep 
Stephen  alive  till  we  get  home.  Later  on,  we  can  ask  Him  to 
let  him  get  well." 

"  Mother,"  said  Helen,  with  eyes  full  of  agony,  "  we 
mustn't  tell  the  Lord  what  to  do." 

Mrs.  Sidney  fell  on  her  knees  with  a  sob. 

"  O  God !  I'm  a  miserable  sinner.  O  God !  make  me 
humble!  Thy  will,  Lord,  Thy  will!  But,  oh,  let  him  live! 
Let  him  live!  O  God,  have  pity  on  Thy  servant,  Thy  mis 
erable,  miserable  servant!  But  let  Thy  countenance  shine 
upon  me.  Oh,  pity  us!  Let  him  live!  Amen.  Amen.  For 
Christ's  sake." 

She  caught  hold  of  the  chair  in  front  of  her,  pulled  up  her 
heavy  body,  and  took  the  baby,  while  the  tear  drops  and 
beads  of  perspiration  ran  in  streams  down  her  face. 


63 

Pleasant  was  still  some  distance  away,  driving  Spitfire 
before  Jenkins'  democrat  wagon.  Hetty  and  a  strange 
woman  were  riding  with  him,  and  the  loyal  dog  was  under  the 
wagon. 

"  If  you  can  walk  by  yourself,  Helen,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney, 
"  I'll  carry  that  satchel.  Pleasant  won't  be  able  to  leave  the 
mare.  Kiss  grandma  good-by,  Kitty.  Be  a  good  girl  and 
God  will  bless  you.  Good-by,  Dannie !  Good-by,  Nellie !  " 

Helen's  knees  trembled,  but  she  kept  pace  with  her  mother, 
and  was  the  first  to  get  into  the  wagon. 

"  I'm  Jenkins'  sister,"  said  the  strange  woman.  "  I'm  up 
for  a  visit,  but  I'll  take  turns  with  Hetty  staying  here." 

"  I  knew  the  Lord  would  provide,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney  in  a 
shaken  voice,  smiling  through  her  tears,  and  she  nodded  re 
assuringly  at  the  friend.  "  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters, 
madam,  and  it  shall  return  to  thee  after  many  days.  Look 
out,  Pleasant !  You'll  trip  on  that  cat." 

The  Maltese  cat  knew  Pleasant  would  not  step  on  her.  She 
brushed  affectionately  against  his  legs  and  purred  content 
edly. 

"  Now,  take  the  baby,  Helen,  and  I'll  help  Pleasant  bring 
out  the  trunk.  Thank  you,  ma'am ! "  as  Jenkins'  sister 
stepped  up  to  hold  the  mare.  She  turned  and  followed 
Pleasant  to  the  house. 

"  Does  that  dog  belong  to  Mr.  Mabie  ?  "  asked  the  stran 
ger,  wishing  to  make  conversation  with  Helen. 

"  Pleasant  found  it  when  it  was  a  pup,"  replied  Helen, 
"  It  was  sick,  and  he  nursed  it  and  took  care  of  it.  He's 
always  kind  to  sick  animals." 

Pleasant's  kindness  to  sick  animals  was  well-known 
throughout  the  neighborhood.  The  farmers  laughed  at  the 
crop  of  weaklings  on  his  stock  farm,  and  were  wont  to  say 
that  strong  animals  didn't  stand  much  of  a  show  with  him 
till  they  were  run  down.  Some  men  grow  bitter  under  defeat ; 
some  grow  stolid.  Pleasant  developed  an  abnormal  sym 
pathy  with  everything  else  that  was  under  par.  It  is  a  hard 
thing  for  a  man  to  behave  admirably  who  realizes  that  he  has 


64  THE    BALLINGTONS 

made  a  failure  of  his  life,  and  that  he  has  lost  the  esteem, 
once  proudly  possessed,  of  a  woman  for  whom  he  was  going 
to  conquer  the  whole  world.  Pleasant  might  have  done  worse. 
Where  many  men  crave  drink,  he  craved  only  affection.  His 
little  daughter  Kitty  looked  down  upon  him,  and  since  Mrs. 
Sidney  had  come  to  live  with  them  there  was  a  similar  tend- 
ency  on  the  part  of  Dan.  Pleasant  suffered  under  the  atti 
tude  toward  him  which  he  saw  developing  in  his  children, 
and  he  sometimes  blamed  Mrs.  Sidney's  talkativeness  for  it, 
and  sometimes  blamed  Helen's  silence.  It  never  occurred  to 
him  that  the  one  woman  only  pushed  the  hand  of  fate,  while 
the  other  labored  to  retard  it,  and  that  his  only  hope  of 
escape  was  that  he  himself  could  unclasp  those  iron  fingers. 

They  rounded  the  curve  by  the  station  an  hour  later,  and 
as  soon  as  the  mare  stopped  Mrs.  Sidney  sprang  out  of 
the  wagon.  "  Give  me  the  baby  !  "  she  cried.  "  Here,  quick ! 
Pleasant  can  bring  the  satchel  and  help  you.  Never  mind 
the  trunk.  He  can  send  it  on." 

She  ran  across  the  weed-grown  road  and  reached  the  train 
as  the  whistle  blew. 

"  Hold  on ! "  she  panted  to  the  conductor  who  had  pulled 
her  up  on  the  car.  "  That  lady  over  there  has  to  get  on  yet." 

"  Can't  wait,"  said  the  man  gruffly. 

"  You've  got  to  wait.  It's  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 
Take  your  hand  off  that  rope !  " 

The  man,  startled  by  the  dominant  voice,  involuntarily 
obeyed,  and  Helen  reached  the  steps  almost  fainting. 

"  There,  my  poor  child,  there ! "  said  Mrs.  Sidney. 
"  Good-by,  Pleasant." 

Then,  as  the  train  pulled  out,  she  turned  to  the  conductor 
with  a  long  sigh.  "  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  sir,"  she  said, 
with  a  wholesome  smile.  "  Perhaps  you'd  better  give  the 
lady  an  arm.  Now  we've  got  to  make  connections  at 
Chicago." 

The  suddenness  of  the  departure  stamped  it  all  with  un 
reality,  and  as  the  afternoon  wore  away  they  seemed 
plunging  deeper  and  deeper  into  strangeness.  Mrs.  Sidney 


THE     BALLINGTONS  65 

soon  fell  asleep  in  her  seat.  Heroic  action  and  profound 
rest  divided  her  time.  There  were  no  moments  left  for  nerves 
and  dreams.  Helen  stayed  awake  with  her  head  pressed 
against  the  window  sash,  hearing  now  the  mysterious  whis 
pers  of  the  great  cotton-woods  as  they  approached  and 
passed  them,  now  the  sound  of  peepers  from  some  pool, 
following  on  the  night  wind.  She  thought  of  the  forlorn 
home  she  was  leaving;  of  her  husband,  crestfallen,  worried 
in  business,  and  diffident  in  heart.  Gradually  the  light  grew 
paler,  mists  crept  along  the  shallows,  spirits  beckoned  and 
saluted  and  waved  farewells.  They  seemed  to  call  mes 
sages  to  her,  and  she  sent  many  in  return  to  the  lonely  ones 
left  behind.  Who  knows  but  that  that  night  the  phantom 
couriers  passed  into  the  bare  chamber  of  a  little  farm 
house  and  kissed  the  occupants  while  they  slept,  and  strewed 
their  pillows  with  amaranth  and  asphodel,  the  flowers  that 
are  ever  blooming  side  by  side  in  the  melancholy  Paradise  of 
human  love? 


CHAPTER  VII 

day  after  Agnes'  last  long  conversation  with  her 
father,  Dr.  Sidney  had  come  home  late  in  the  afternoon 
and  had  gone  at  once  to  his  room.  Agnes  left  him  unwill 
ingly  in  the  evening  to  go  out  with  Fred  and  Beatrice.  Her 
uneasiness  grew  upon  her  until  she  excused  herself  in  the 
midst  of  the  entertainment  and  came  home  alone.  To  her 
alarm  she  found  her  father's  horse  standing  still  hitched  to 
the  buggy  where  the  patient  animal  had  been  left  hours  be 
fore  by  its  usually  careful  master.  After  caring  for  the 
neglected  beast,  Agnes  looked  into  her  father's  room.  He 
was  still  sleeping  heavily  but  restlessly,  as  he  had  been 
when  she  left  earlier  in  the  evening.  Four  days  later  she 
sent  the  telegram  to  her  mother  and  sister  to  come. 

Fred  Sidney  met  his  aunt  and  cousin  at  the  station  and 
drove  them  to  the  house.  Mrs.  Sidney  had  taken  off  her 
wraps  on  the  way  to  the  house,  and,  as  the  horse  stopped  at 
the  office  door,  she  took  an  apron  from  the  satchel  and  tied 
it  about  her  waist.  Then  she  walked  into  the  office,  equipped 
for  nursing. 

As  Agnes  saw  the  familiar  figure  coming  quickly  through 
the  door  toward  the  bed-room  where  she  waited  by  her 
father's  side,  she  seemed  to  awaken  from  a  nightmare;  but 
it  came  back  upon  her,  as  she  looked  down  on  her  father's 
face,  which  the  grim  sculptor  was  chiseling  closer  each  hour 
to  the  death's  head  we  all  carry  about  with  us  concealed. 

"  Mamma  is  here,"  she  said,  kissing  his  forehead  before 
she  went  to  meet  her  mother. 

She  said  but  the  one  word,  "  Meningitis,"  as  she  kissed 
Mrs.  Sidney,  and  then  stole  out  of  the  room  to  help  Helen 
with  the  baby. 

When  the  two  sisters  returned,  Mrs.  Sidney  was  giving 

66 


THE     BALLINGTONS  67 

her  husband  cracked  ice.  He  had  settled  back  more  easily 
upon  his  pillows,  and  there  was  a  shade  of  contentment  be 
neath  the  ever-recurring  expressions  of  suffering. 

"  You — will — see — to — things — now,  Kate,"  he  said  pres 
ently,  seeking  to  turn  his  head  toward  his  wife,  but  failing 
in  the  attempt.  "  I  can't — I  can't — any  more."  He  closed 
his  eyes,  then  opened  them  toward  Agnes,  and  added :  "  And 
— my — poor — little — girl " 

He  did  not  finish,  but  she  knew  that  he  wished  to  speak  in 
her  favor,  and  his  effort  to  do  so  broke  the  girl's  heart. 

Sooner  or  later  the  time  comes  when  fate  brands  us.  Like 
dumb,  driven  cattle,  Agnes  shrank  with  mortal  agony  and 
terror,  felt  herself  held  under  the  iron  that  burns  with  the 
fire  which  is  not  quenched,  quivered  forth  marked  with  the 
stamp  time  cannot  wear  away,  and  passed  on  into  the  in 
numerable  herd. 

Very  soon  after  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Sidney  and  Helen  the 
terrible  spasms  of  meningitis  began,  but  it  was  not  until  a 
week  later  that  a  physician  said  quietly,  when  leaving,  "  He 
will  not  live  out  this  night." 

Agnes  slept  through  the  early  part  of  the  night.  Mrs. 
Sidney  had  promised  to  call  her  in  case  of  a  change.  Toward 
midnight  she  heard  her  sister's  voice  summoning  her.  Agnes 
responded  at  once. 

Helen  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  a  candle  in 
her  hand.  As  she  lifted  it  to  light  the  way,  Agnes  observed 
the  dignity  and  quiet  of  the  waiting  figure.  The  tenderness 
and  transfiguration  in  the  dark  face  looking  up  at  the  un 
happy  girl  irresistibly  recalled  Dr.  Sidney  himself. 

"  Is  it  over  ?  "  Agnes  asked. 

"  No,"  replied  Helen  gently.  "  I  have  had  a  wonderful 
hour  with  him.  I  am  sorry  that  you  must  see  him  as  he  is 
now,  not  as  he  has  been  until  now."  She  paused  and  said 
earnestly,  "  It  is  but  a  struggle  of  the  poor  body  now.  His 
spirit  is  at  rest." 

They  went  into  the  chamber  and  Agnes  approached  the 
bedside.  One  of  her  father's  hands  was  near  her  own.  Helen 


68  THE     BALLINGTONS 

Mabie  had  inserted  a  handkerchief,  before  it  clenched,  that 
the  nails  might  not  cut  the  flesh. 

"  How  merciful  it  is,"  said  Agnes,  "  that  he  is  not  con 
scious  under  this.  Dr.  Crocker  said  he  was  not." 

She  sat  down  near  the  others,  and  the  three  women  waited. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  should  have  let  Dr.  Quinn  stay  all 
night,  mother?  "  asked  Helen.  "  He  was  ready  to  do  so." 

"  There  are  others  who  need  him  more  to-night." 

They  heard  the  timepiece  as  it  ticked  steadily  on. 

"  I  believe  your  father's  aunt — Aunt — Uncle  Samuel's 
wife — died  with  spinal  meningitis,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney. 
"  What  was  her  first  name,  Helen  ?  " 

"  I  am  thinking.    Was  it  Edna?  " 

"  No,  it  wasn't  Edna,  but  I  think  it  began  with  E." 

"  There  is  a  man  outside  the  window,"  said  Agnes,  sud 
denly.  "  I  saw  his  head  through  the  blinds." 

"  It  is  only  that  young  reporter  from  The  Times" 
answered  Helen.  She  rose  as  she  spoke  and  went  out  of  the 
room. 

As  she  left  it,  Dr.  Sidney's  face  relaxed.  He  moved  his 
arms  a  little,  and  seemed  trying  to  speak. 

Agnes  sprang  to  his  side,  and  leaned  over  close  to  his  lips. 
He  was  whispering. 

"  Her — name — was — Eunice." 

"  Mamma ! "  said  Agnes,  in  a  voice  of  anguish,  "  Dr. 
Crocker  was  wrong.  He  is  conscious." 

Mrs.  Sidney  was  already  at  her  husband's  side. 

"  Can  you  understand  me,  Stephen  ?  "  she  asked,  bending 
down. 

His  eyes  answered  her. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  of  the  smell  of  the  little  wild  things, 
and  of  the  way  the  poplars  swayed  in  the  wind,  and  how  the 
dragon-flies  darted  over  the  trout  stream,  and — and  how 
happy  we  were." 

The  brilliant  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her. 

"  And  I've  been  thinking  of  the  little  home  as  it  was  at 
first  with  just  three  rooms,  and  how  we  loved  it.  We  loved 


THE     BALLINGTONS  69 

it.  There  are  many  mansions — a  house  of  many  mansions — 
and  a  place  is  prepared  for  us,  Stephen.  But  oh,  we 
loved  it!  " 

He  tried  to  move  his  hand  toward  her. 

"  And  then  the  little  baby  came,  and " 

Agnes  crept  away  and  joined  Helen  in  the  kitchen.  Time 
had  gone  back  now.  A  quarter  of  a  century  had  slipped 
away  from  her  parents'  minds.  She  had  no  place  in  that 
love  which,  with  all  her  life-long  knowledge  of  her  parents' 
devotion  to  each  other,  had  just  come  upon  her  as  an 
apocalypse. 

When  the  sisters  returned  to  the  bed-room,  Dr.  Sidney 
appeared  to  be  sleeping,  but  his  breath  sounded  loud  and 
labored.  Mrs.  Sidney  was  sitting  in  a  chair  by  the  bed 
side.  They  had  hold  of  each  other's  hands,  but  she,  too,  was 
sleeping.  As  the  girls  entered,  she  sat  up  with  a  start. 
"  Where  have  you  been  ?  "  she  asked. 

Helen  answered  in  a  low  voice.  "  In  the  kitchen  with  the 
window  open.  I  wanted  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air." 

"  You  wanted  to  get  what?  " 

Helen  spoke  with  a  dry  throat :  "  I  said  I  wanted  to  get 
a  breash  of  freth  air." 

Mrs.  Sidney  laughed. 

"Mother,"  said  Helen    painfully,  "how  can  you?" 

"  You  said  '  breash  of  freth  air.'  You  left  the  '  sh '  off 
of  *  fresh '  and  put  it  on  '  breath.'  Oh,  how  can  I?  How 
can  I?" 

Helen  sat  down  with  a  heartsick  look  in  her  face. 

"  Helen,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney,  after  a  minute,  "  I'm  made 
that  way.  It's  terrible.  I  can't  help  it.  When  my  own 
mother  was  dying,  she  asked  me  for  a  glass  of  water,  and 
when  I  brought  it  to  her  she  couldn't  see  very  well.  I  be 
lieve  it  was  the  blindness  of  death.  She  put  up  her  hand  in 
a  queer  way,  and  said,  'What  is  it?*  And  I  laughed!  / 
laughed!  " 

There  was  a  long  silence,  until  at  last  Agnes  said,  "  I 
think  he  is  moving." 


70  THE     BALLINGTONS 

The  three  women  drew  near  the  bed. 

Dr.  Sidney  opened  his  eyes  as  if  with  a  violent  effort.  He 
moved  one  finger  upward  as  he  spoke,  and  he  said  in  a  thick 
voice,  "  I  say — live ! — not  die — live !  "  Again  the  finger 
pointed. 

In  a  moment  the  heavy  breathing  was  resumed,  ever  slower. 
They  stood  motionless,  listening  and  waiting  for  the  beating 
of  the  heart  to  stop.  Slower  and  slower  came  the  labored 
breaths — there  was  a  pause — another  breath — and  the  wait — 
the  wait — until  the  end  of  time,  the  wait. 

As  Mrs.  Sidney  raised  her  face,  her  daughters  turned 
away. 

"  He  has  gone  to  his  long  home,"  said  the  widow ;  she 
placed  one  hand  over  the  sightless  eyes,  closing  them  tenderly, 
while  she  placed  the  other  hand  beneath  the  chin. 

"Helen!" 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  Bring  me  a  towel.     Agnes  ?  " 

"  I  am  here,  mother." 

"  Go  into  the  kitchen  and  get  the  ironing-board.  Your 
father's  clean  clothes  are  laid  out  in  the  closet.  Bring  me 
also  his  best  broadcloth  suit.  Now,  Helen,  carefully." 

Agnes  turned  away  from  the  room  with  a  sickening  heart. 
She  did  her  duties,  and  waited  to  be  told  of  more.  Mrs. 
Sidney  went  to  the  mantel-piece  and  poured  something  into 
a  glass. 

"  Helen  and  I  will  not  need  you  any  longer,"  she  said. 
"  You  had  better  get  in  bed  with  your  Aunt  Mattie,  but  first 
drink  this." 

Agnes  took  the  glass  and  drank  what  her  mother  had  pre 
pared. 

Mrs.  Sidney  took  the  girl's  head  between  her  hands  and 
kissed  her.  "  Try  to  sleep,"  she  said.  "  He  shall  not  come 
back  to  us,  but  we  shall  go  to  him." 

Agnes  went  out  of  the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind 
her.  As  she  was  going  through  the  dining-room  she  heard 
the  office-bell  ring.  She  went  to  the  door  and  asked  who  was 


THE    BALLINGTONS  71 

there.     A  voice  said,  "  I  am  from  The  Times."     The  office 
clock  struck  three  as  she  answered,  "  Dr.  Sidney  is  dead." 

Then  she  walked  back  slowly  through  the  dimly-lighted 
offices.  The  gray  afghan  was  thrown  back  from  the  back- 
office  lounge,  as  though  her  father  had  just  left  it.  There 
on  the  table  lay  the  volume  of  Cowper.  She  took  the  book 
up  in  her  hand,  and  it  fell  open.  Her  father's  pencil  marks 
drew  her  attention  to  the  lines, 

"  One  sheltered  hare 
Has  never  heard  the  sanguinary  yell 
Of  cruel  man,  exulting  in  her  woe." 

She  closed  the  book  and  put  it  back  again,  and  went  up 
stairs  to  her  aunt's  room.  Aunt  Mattie  was  sitting  up  in 
bed,  hushing  to  sleep  Helen's  baby,  who  was  lying  in  a  cradle 
close  to  the  bed.  "  Who  is  it?  "  she  asked  as  she  heard  the 
steps  coming. 

"  It  is  I — Agnes.  Papa  died  just  before  the  clock  struck 
three." 

"  Can  I  do  anything?  " 

"  I  think  not.  Isn't  there  something  to  do  here  ?  Shall  I 
keep  the  baby  ?  "  She  went  in,  stood  by  the  cradle  and  looked 
down  at  the  flower-like  sleep  of  Helen's  child. 

"  The  baby  is  all  right  now.  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to 
think  of  taking  him.  I'm  sorry  for  you,  Agnes."  She  put 
out  her  hand  and  the  girl  pressed  it. 

Agnes  did  not  get  into  bed  with  her  aunt.  She  went  into 
her  own  room  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  She  was 
startled  that  her  face  had  not  changed. 

Then,  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  heard  her  father's 
words,  "  You  must  see  to  things  now,  Kate.  I  can't,"  she 
forced  herself  to  face  the  judge  who  would  never  pardon — 
her  own  soul. 

"  He  wanted  mother.  He  needed  her.  She  spoke  the 
truth.  I  thought  I  loved  him  best,  but  she  was  necessary 
here  to  take  care  of  him,  and  to  take  care  of  me.  I  wanted 
to  get  rid  of  her.  It  was  not  to  make  him  happy — it  was  to 


72  THE     BALLINGTONS 

get  my  own  way.    I  didn't  take  care  of  him  the  way  she  did. 
It  is  I  who  have  killed  him" 

She  walked  to  the  window  and  opened  it.  The  ground  was 
covered  with  snow — the  first,  light,  unexpected  fall  of  the 
season.  Far  out  in  the  still  morning  she  heard  the  whistle 
and  rumble  of  a  train.  There  came  to  her  the  words  from 
Lear: 

"  I  might  have  saved  her;  now  she's  gone  forever. 
She's  dead — dead  as  earth." 

She  sat  still  looking  out  into  the  morning  until  Helen 
came  up,  went  to  her  boy,  and  after  a  time  approached  her 
door. 

"  It  is  all  done,"  she  said,  entering.  "  He  looks  very 
beautiful,"  and  she  sat  down  by  her  sister. 

"  Where  is  mother  ?  " 

"  She  is  down  with  him." 

After  a  long  time  Agnes  said,  watching  her  sister, 
"  What  are  you  thinking  about,  Helen  ?  " 

Helen  raised  her  head.  "  I  was  thinking  of  the  wild 
flowers  he  used  to  bring  me,  and  of  how  I  never  thanked  him. 
He  spelled  my  name  in  forget-me-nots,  one  summer,  and  I 
didn't  pay  any  attention  to  it.  I  used  to  keep  him  waiting 
in  the  cold  when  he  called  to  get  me  with  his  buggy.  I 
never  knew  how  to  put  myself  in  sympathy  with  him  as  well 
as  you  did,  Agnes.  I  think  it  was  because  he  was  away  in 
the  war  when  I  was  little,  and  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  him 
when  he  came  back." 

Agnes  was  silent.  She  looked  at  her  sister  and  analyzed 
her  grief.  "  She  feels  remorse,"  she  thought,  "  but  she  is 
innocent.  She  can  talk  of  it.  There  is  no  human  soul  whom 
I  can  tell." 

Presently  she  crept  into  bed  and  lay  there  cold  and  calm. 
It  was  the  first  night  since  she  could  remember  that  she  had 
lain  down  to  sleep  without  saying  a  prayer  which  she  had 
learned  in  childhood.  The  Garden  of  £den  was  shut  behind 
her,  and  the  angel  with  the  flaming  sword  guarded  the  gate. 


PART  II 


CHAPTER   I 

TF  one  had  walked  into  the  Sidney  house  the  day  following 
Dr.  Sidney's  burial  he  would  have  found  everything  going 
on  in  much  the  same  way  as  usual.  Mrs.  Sidney  had  opened 
the  windows,  and  fresh  air  and  sunshine  surrounded  her 
while  she  worked.  Agnes  again  had  filled  the  house  with 
flowers — shaggy  autumnal  flowers,  whose  pungent  and  woody 
smells  were  fast  conquering  the  faint  hot-house  odors  linger 
ing  from  the  day  before;  and  her  pupils  were  back  again 
reciting  to  her,  as  they  had  done  regularly  till  her  father 
took  to  his  bed.  Aunt  Mattie's  quiet  was  as  impregnable 
as  ever.  Only  the  presence  of  Helen  and  the  baby  was  out 
of  the  common.  That  Dr.  Sidney  himself  was  absent  would 
scarcely  have  attracted  notice.  He  was  often  away  from 
home  at  meal-time  and  in  the  night,  and  though  he  never 
would  come  again  Mrs.  Sidney  had  no  intention  of  permitting 
life  to  succumb  to  death. 

One  who  knew  the  family  intimately  would,  in  the  course 
of  some  weeks,  have  begun  to  notice  changes  in  Agnes  and 
her  mother.  They  were  hardly  discernible  to  the  ordinary 
eye.  Mrs.  Sidney  was  more  active  even  than  she  had  been 
before ;  she  read  her  Bible  still  more,  catching  a  moment  now 
and  then  to  pick  up  a  new  verse  or  incident,  which  she  would 
meditate  upon  while  working.  And  her  Biblical  quotations 
had  undergone  the  same  tempering  process  that  had  softened 
almost  imperceptibly  her  uncompromising  nature.  She  spent 
less  time  with  Elijah  beneath  the  juniper  tree,  and  with 
Jeremiah  in  the  pit.  She  rarely  marched  to  battle  with 
Joshua.  But  she  walked  often  with  Moses  up  and  down  the 
mountains  of  the  wilderness,  she  mused  with  David  in  the 
valleys  and  pastures.  Every  evening  Mrs.  Sidney  led  the 

73 


74  THE    BALLINGTONS 

family  prayers,  as  her  husband  used  to  do,  and  her  daughters 
wondered  that  she  could  keep  her  face  serene  and  her  voice 
steady.  After  they  had  said  good-night,  and  she  was  left 
alone  downstairs  in  her  bed-room,  she  would  take  up  her 
Bible  again  for  her  solitary  devotions.  It  always  opened 
of  itself,  at  a  page  in  Ezekiel,  and  she  always  cried  as  she 
read, 

Son  of  man,  behold,  I  take  away  from  thee  the  desire  of  thine  eyes 
with  a  stroke;  yet  neither  shalt  thou  mourn  nor  weep,  neither  shall  thy 
tears  run  down.  Forbear  to  cry,  make  no  mourning  for  the  dead. 

So  I  spake  unto  the  people  in  the  morning,  and  at  even  my  wife  died; 
and  I  did  in  the  morning  as  I  was  commanded. 

Agnes  was  beginning  to  find  herself  less  in  sympathy  with 
many  of  her  acquaintances,  but  she  was  coming  into  touch 
with  a  widening  circle  of  friends  toward  whom  she  but  re 
cently  had  been  unsympathetic.  She  was  generally  cheerful, 
but  she  no  longer  had  the  insolent  cheerfulness  which  has 
not  known  grief. 

One  day  about  a  fortnight  after  the  doctor's  death  Mrs. 
Sidney  and  her  daughters  were  sitting  at  the  table  eating 
the  midday  meal.  There  had  been  a  long  silence  and  Mrs. 
Sidney's  face  had  relapsed  into  its  occasional  expression  of 
grief.  But  she  knew  she  must  not  allow  herself  to  think 
too  much,  and  she  roused  herself  abruptly  and  looked 
toward  Agnes.  "  Haven't  you  a  letter  there,  Agnes  ?  Who's 
it  from?  " 

"  From  Miriam  Cass." 

"  Why  don't  you  read  it?  Is  she  the  girl  who's  going  on 
a  sailing  vessel?  " 

"  She's  gone."  Agnes  rebelled  at  this  catechism,  not 
realizing,  as  her  mother  did,  that  a  counter-irritant  is  a  good 
remedy  for  grief. 

"Who's  she  gone  with?"  persisted  Mrs.  Sidney,  trying 
to  keep  her  mind  on  the  subject. 

"  She's  gone  with  her  father,"  replied  Agnes  shortly.  Then 
she  added  hastily,  anticipating  the  next  question,  "  Her 
mother  died  when  she  was  little." 


THE    BALLINGTONS  75 

"  It's  a  great  misfortune  for  a  girl  to  be  left  without  a 
mother."  Mrs.  Sidney  heaved  a  weary  sigh  and  took  up  a 
glass  of  water. 

Agnes  watched  her  mother  with  rising  impatience.  Pres 
ently  she  said  irritably, 

"  Mamma,  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  gulp  that  way  when  you 
drink.  It  seems  as  if  I  should  go  crazy.  I've  tried  my  best 
to  keep  still,  but  I  just  can't  do  it." 

Mrs.  Sidney's  face  involuntarily  hardened  into  reproof, 
then  voluntarily  softened.  Agnes  was  surprised  and  morti 
fied  when  her  mother  finally  spoke,  saying  with  an  unex 
pected  smile,  "  Well,  I'll  try  and  not  do  it,  and  I  hope  you'll 
never  know  what  it  is  to  be  as  thirsty  as  I  am.  Sometimes 
it  seems  as  if  I  could  lap  up  the  water  like  Gideon's  men." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Then  Agnes  said,  "  That  was 
nice  in  you,  mother.  Excuse  me  for  speaking  the  way  I  did," 
and  she  left  the  room  and  went  upstairs. 

There,  amidst  the  mementos  of  her  old  Winston  life,  she 
opened  Miriam's  letter.  Her  friend  had  passed  through 
Winston  during  Dr.  Sidney's  illness,  and  was  now  on  the 
water.  The  letter  had  been  mailed  from  New  York.  It  was 
a  plain  note,  written  in  the  self -unconsciousness  of  Miriam's 
deeper  moods.  It  told  about  her  mother's  death  and  burial 
at  sea  and  the  impression  it  had  made  upon  her  as  a  child. 
When  she  came  to  speak  of  Agnes'  grief  there  was  a  quiet 
in  her  words  which  recalled  the  hand  of  death  itself.  It 
was  the  only  one  of  all  the  Betters  Agnes  had  received  which 
attempted  no  word  of  consolation,  and  it  was  the  one  which 
brought  it  most,  because  everything  she  wrote  was  simple 
and  full  of  love. 

When  Agnes  came  down  into  the  kitchen  later  to  help  her 
mother  with  the  work,  Mrs.  Sidney  was  washing  dishes.  The 
wiping  of  them  was  left  for  Agnes.  The  girl  often  had  been 
touched  of  late  by  her  mother's  efforts  to  divide  the  labor 
so  that  the  daughter's  hands  might  be  spared  the  rougher 
work. 

As  soon  as  the  dishes  were  put  away.  Mrs.  Sidney  brought 


76  THE    BALLINGTONS 

out  the  remains  of  a  roast  of  mutton.  "  We  had  better  cut 
this  up  for  a  meat-pie  to-morrow,"  she  said.  "  Then  we  can 
put  on  the  bone  for  a  soup  to-night." 

"  Do  let's  have  a  change  to-morrow ! "  Agnes  exclaimed 
impulsively.  "  I  can't  eat  mutton  another  day,  really.  Let's 
kill  a  chicken." 

"  A  live  chicken  keeps  better  than  a  dead  sheep,"  an 
swered  Mrs.  Sidney  sententiously.  "  Those  chickens  are  all 
we've  got  to  depend  upon  for  fresh  meat  now,  till  they  kill 
another  calf  at  the  farm.  I  shan't  run  in  debt  one  cent  from 
now  on.  We've  got  to  pay  as  we  go,  and  if  we  can't  pay, 
we'll  eat  beans — that's  all." 

Agnes  caught  at  the  opportunity  to  suggest  something 
she  had  had  in  mind  for  some  days  back.  "  It  seems  to  me 
that  we  are  trying  to  carry  too  much,  mamma.  We  have  this 
place  and  the  farm  to  keep  going.  Why  can't  we  sell  the 
farm,  and  invest  the  money  more  profitably?  The  farm  just 
runs  itself  and  doesn't  bring  us  in  anything  but  worry." 

Mrs.  Sidney  stopped  working  and  turned  toward  her 
daughter.  "  I'd  worry  a  good  deal  more  if  we  didn't  have 
a  farm  running  itself,"  she  returned.  "  If  it  comes  to  selling 
any  place,  it  will  be  this  house.  There's  nothing  like  having 
a  piece  of  land  in  a  good  farming  country  to  fall  back  on. 
Banks  fail,  buildings  burn  up  or  rot  down,  and  nobody  knows 
how  long  a  business  will  be  profitable ;  but  a  few  acres  of  land 
will  always  raise  potatoes  and  beans  enough  to  feed  us,  and 
keep  hens  and  cows  and  sheep  enough  to  clothe  us.  You  can 
spin  and  I  can  weave  if  we  have  to." 

Agnes  smiled  unwillingly.  "  I'd  rather  earn  my  clothes 
singing  or  tutoring,  mother.  I  think  we'd  have  more  than 
if  we  sheared  the  sheep  and  spun  and  wove  our  garments." 

"  Don't  grow  up  with  the  idea  of  depending  entirely  on 
other  people,  Agnes,"  Mrs.  Sidney  replied  decidedly.  "  Much 
as  we  love  this  home,  it  doesn't  support  us.  We  support  it, 
and  please  God  we  can  keep  it.  But  your  father  always 
said  the  old  farm  where  his  father  and  grandfather  lived 
was  the  place  to  rely  on;  and  my  mother  used  to  tell  me,  as 


THE    BALLINGTONS  77 

long  ago  as  I  remember,  '  Don't  you  ever  marry  a  man  unless 
he  has  got  land,  Kate.  It's  the  only  thing  to  be  sure  of  in 
this  world ;  and  don't  you  ever  let  him  mortgage  it ! '  She 
was  a  wise  woman.  When  you  have  mortgaged  anything, 
you're  improving  other  people's  property  at  your  own  ex 
pense.  If  you  can't  keep  things  going,  sell  'em  outright 
before  they  run  down,  but  a  person  with  brains  and  self- 
denial  can  always  live  on  a  farm  and  keep  it  thrifty.  So  we 
will  keep  the  farm,  I  guess." 

She  beamed  upon  Agnes  for  a  moment,  and  then  turned 
back  to  her  work.  "  Don't  repine  at  the  farm  mutton, 
either.  You  may  be  thankful  enough  to  have  your  meat 
provided.  I'm  going  to  poach  an  egg  for  Helen  to-night, 
but  the  rest  of  us  will  have  a  good  soup." 

"  Don't  cook  anything  extra  for  me — please,"  begged 
Helen  with  desperate  earnestness.  "  I  don't  know  what's 
going  to  become  of  us  all.  Papa  has  helped  us  so  much 
lately.  I  don't  see  how  we  can  do  without  him,  and  oh,  we 
ought  to  be  in  a  position  to  help  you ! "  She  broke  down 
and  began  to  cry. 

"  You'll  rile  your  baby's  milk,!'  said  her  mother,  not  paus 
ing  in  her  work.  "  It  isn't  necessary  he  should  be  troubled 
about  his  food.  I  guess  the  Lord  will  provide  for  His  own." 

Helen  still  continued  to  cry  silently. 

"  Control  yourself,  Helen,"  her  mother  said  again  more 
brusquely.  "  Haven't  you  got  any  grit  ?  " 

"  I  used  to  have  some,  mother,  but  it's  gone.  I'm  tired 
out.  Hope  long  deferred  maketh  the  heart  sick." 

Mrs.  Sidney  faced  about  toward  her  daughter  and  eyed 
her  watchfully  while  she  wiped  her  hands  on  a  hanging  towel. 
Then  she  glanced  about  the  clean  and  tidy  kitchen,  felt  of 
some  ears  of  corn  which  hung  in  golden  rows  above  the 
mantel-piece  and  sat  down. 

"  You  run  in  the  sitting-room,  Agnes,  and  bring  me  my 
sewing,"  she  said  to  her  younger  daughter,  and  then  as 
Agnes  disappeared  through  the  door  she  turned  to  Helen. 
"  You  may  think  you  are  done  for,  Nellie,"  she  said  not 


78  THE    BALLINGTONS 

ungently,  "  but  you're  just  at  the  end  of  your  first  wind. 
You  won't  be  able  to  keep  up  at  the  pace  you've  been  going — • 
kindergartens  and  Italian  concerts — but  you  can  keep  up 
a  moderate  gait." 

She  looked  up  as  Agnes  came  back  with  her  work,  and 
took  it  from  her,  continuing  her  talk  in  a  different  manner. 
"  Before  the  doctor  died,  you  were  all  used  up  because  things 
were  so  bad  then.  Now  you  look  back  on  that  time  and  think 
you  were  pretty  well  off.  Just  let  that  teach  you  a  lesson.  The 
time  may  come  when  you'll  look  back  to  this  day  and  think 
you  were  a  queen." 

"  Don't,  mother !  "  cried  Helen.  "  Things  are  bad  enough 
now.  I  didn't  tell  you  the  worst  of  Pleasant's  letter,  but  he 
says  the  pigs  aren't  doing  well.  They've  got  the  scurvy  and 
he's  afraid  he'll  lose  them  all." 

"  He  won't  if  he  does  as  I  say,"  replied  Mrs.  Sidney,  im 
patience  struggling  in  her  face.  "  Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
that  before?  You  write  a  letter  this  very  minute.  Tell  him 
to  wash  the  young  ones  off  in  kerosene  in  the  morning,  and 
with  soap  and  water  at  night.  Or  else  he  can  put  the  kero 
sene  on  at  night  and  wash  them  off  with  soap  and  water  in 
the  morning.  It  won't  do  the  old  ones  any  harm  either.  But 
mind  you  tell  him  to  be  sure  and  not  get  the  oil  in  their  ears. 
Don't  you  forget  that.  If  he  does,  they'll  hang  their  heads 
around  for  a  while  and  then  die.  I've  seen  them.  Dear  me, 
how  I  do  wish  I  was  there  and  could  see  to  it  myself ! " 

Helen  arose  and  went  into  the  sitting-room.  During  the 
cool  days  following  Dr.  Sidney's  death  they  had  formed  the 
habit  of  sitting  in  the  kitchen  and  thus  economizing  fuel. 
There  was  a  return  of  summer  now,  but  the  habit  remained. 

"  She's  weak,  poor  child,  and  can't  help  herself,"  said 
Mrs.  Sidney  to  Agnes.  "  This  has  all  been  terrible  for  her 
so  soon  after  the  baby  came,  but  there's  no  excuse  for  you. 
Don't  you  let  me  see  you  get  down  in  the  mouth." 

"  I'm  not  down  in  the  mouth,  mamma." 

"  Why  did  you  send  Babbie  Monks  away  in  the  middle  of 
her  lesson,  yesterday  ?  " 


THE    BALLINGTONS  79 

"  I  got  to  thinking  about  papa,  and  I  just  couldn't  give 
it  to  her."  Agnes  spoke  in  a  trembling  voice  and  turned 
toward  the  window. 

"Why  weren't  you  thinking  about  cube-root?  That's 
what  you're  being  paid  for." 

The  girl's  quivering  lips  parted  in  a  slight  smile  as  she 
looked  back  toward  her  mother.  An  intuition  of  the  policy 
behind  these  sallies  came  to  her.  "  Mamma,  I  haven't  words 
to  praise  you,"  she  said  almost  tenderly. 

Then,  with  a  certain  embarrassment  at  her  unwonted  atti 
tude  toward  her  mother,  she  added  quickly,  pinching  a  leaf 
of  the  rose  geranium  which  stood  with  some  other  newly- 
potted  plants  near  the  window,  "  I  was  all  right  while  I  was 
teaching  her.  But  this  was  when  she  took  a  long  time  work 
ing  out  an  example  by  herself,  and  I  had  to  wait  and  think." 

"  The  next  time  think  that  a  cheerful  heart  doeth  good, 
but  a  broken  spirit  drieth  the  bones,"  returned  Mrs.  Sidney 
sagely.  "  How  much  do  you  think  you  can  make  a  week 
now,  with  the  offer  they've  made  you  for  singing?  " 

"  About  ten  dollars,  if  I  take  the  church  money.  You 
know  papa  never  wanted  me  to." 

"  Neither  do  I,"  commented  Mrs.  Sidney,  "  but  the  Lord 
has  put  it  upon  us.  Forty  dollars  a  month.  Many  families 
live  on  less  than  that.  It  won't  buy  us  a  stalled  ox,  but  I 
guess  we  can  get  a  dinner  of  herbs  on  it."  She  interrupted 
herself  to  remind  Agnes  that  the  sweet  marjoram  should  be 
picked  and  dried,  and  then  went  on :  "  We'll  have  to  eke  out 
something  for  Helen.  I  never  knew  how  things  were  till  I 
got  out  there.  They've  got  a  mortgage  on  the  farm.  I  had 
to  worm  it  out  of  them.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  about 
it  yet." 

Agnes  made  no  reply.  The  change  in  her  situation,  which 
she  now  suddenly  realized  when  her  mother  referred  to  her 
as  the  main  support  of  the  family,  stunned  her.  Yet  she 
felt  exhilaration  in  the  shock.  She  was  to  take  care  of  her 
mother  and  sister  and  aunt  and  all  the  helpless  children.  The 
faintness  of  the  struggle  was  to  come  later. 


80  THE     BALLINGTONS 

"  It's  a  good  thing  your  father  didn't  leave  any  debts," 
said  Mrs.  Sidney  again.  "  I've  got  enough  on  hand  now 
to  clear  up  what  few  things  there  are.  We  won't  collect  a 
quarter  of  what's  on  his  books.  Fred  paid  for  the  funeral 
expenses  out  of  his  savings.  That's  got  to  be  made  up. 
He'll  need  it  to  get  married  on.  He  was  in  here  while  you 
were  upstairs.  He's  just  got  a  letter  from  Beatrice  Mott, 
and  they're  hurrying  up  with  the  wedding  at  the  lake.  They 
have  given  up  having  a  large  one  out  of  respect  to  your 
father." 

There  was  a  pause. 

Then  Mrs.  Sidney  went  on.  "  Dr.  Quinn  is  going  to  buy 
your  father's  practice,  and  he'll  take  Peggy,  too." 

"  Oh,  don't  sell  Peggy !  "  cried  Agnes.  "  What  would  old 
Peggy  think?  After  she  went  through  the  war  with  papa, 
and  then  to  sell  her  only  child !  " 

"  I  know  it  cuts  to  the  quick,"  answered  Mrs.  Sidney, 
wiping  her  eyes  with  the  corner  of  her  apron.  "  I'm  glad 
it's  going  to  be  Quinn.  You  can  trust  Quinn.  He's  a  little 
slow  of  speech,  but  so  was  Moses.  He'll  have  a  room  here, 
too,  and  I'll  board  him." 

"  Oh,  that's  good !  "  Agnes  felt  her  load  lightening  now 
that  she  saw  some  addition  to  her  own  earnings  in  their 
income. 

"  He  offered  to  buy  the  library,  but  I  shan't  sell  that.  He 
can  use  it,  but  we'll  keep  the  books.  Maybe  you'll  marry  a 
doctor." 

"  I  won't  marry  Quinn,  if  that's  what  you  mean." 

"  I  guess  Quinn  don't  want  you.  He  didn't  say  anything 
about  you — just  the  mare.  I  guess  we'll  get  along.  We 
aren't  foundered  yet." 

She  put  her  hand  in  the  work-basket  and  handed  Agnes 
her  thimble,  which  suggestion  the  girl  accepted  and  went 
into  the  sitting-room  for  her  share  of  the  sewing.  During 
the  conversation  with  her  mother  the  thought  of  Donald 
Ballington  had  come  repeatedly  to  her  mind,  and  she  appre 
ciated  the  fact  that  now  that  a  marriage  with  him  might  be 


THE     BALLINGTONS  81 

an  ignoble  temptation,  her  mother  had  not  mentioned  him. 
Helen  had  finished  her  note,  and  was  nursing  her  baby  when 
her  sister  came  into  the  room.  Agnes  sat  down  on  the  sofa 
near  her,  and  took  up  a  black  skirt  which  her  mother  had  cut 
out  for  her  from  one  of  her  own. 

"  Agnes,"  said  Helen  presently,  "  there's  something  I 
want  to  say  to  you  before  I  go.  I  want  to  caution  you  to  be 
very  kind  and  considerate  to  mother.  She's  a  wonderful 
woman  in  keeping  up,  but  we  don't  either  of  us  realize  what 
this  has  been  to  her.  I  know  you  don't  see  it,  but  at  heart 
she's  very  sensitive.  Won't  you  try  to  be  more  affectionate 
to  her?  " 

"  I  do  try,  Helen.  I  don't  know  why  it  is.  I  can't  be 
affectionate  to  mamma.  I  just  can't  make  myself.  I  said 
before  I  came  downstairs  this  morning  that  I'd  go  and  kiss 
her  when  I  came  into  the  room,  and  I  stood  in  the  kitchen- 
door  two  or  three  minutes  trying  to  make  myself  go  up  to 
her.  She  turned  around  and  asked  me  why  I  was  waiting, 
and,  oh,  Helen,  she  didn't  ask  it  crossly.  She  was  just  sur 
prised  and  kind.  When  she  turned  away  again,  I  felt  as  if 
she  knew  what  I  was  trying  to  do,  and  I  couldn't  do  it.  It 
was  just  the  same  at  the  dinner- table.  When  she  was  so  nice 
to  me  about  my  miserable  fault-finding  over  her  drinking,  I 
wanted  to  throw  my  arms  around  her  neck,  or  go  down 
on  my  knees,  and  so,  of  course,  walked  upstairs.  What  on 
earth  is  the  matter  with  me?  " 

Helen  Mabie  sighed. 

After  a  little  while,  Agnes  took  the  initiative  with  her. 
"  Helen,"  she  said,  reddening,  "  do  you  think  respect  is 
enough  to  marry  on?  " 

"  It  depends.     I  wouldn't  have  said  so  once." 

"  Do  you  think  a  woman  could  be  just  as  happy  as  though 
she  fell  in  love  ?  " 

"  Happier,  if  she'd  only  know  it.  But  she  wouldn't  know 
it.  So  I  think  she'd  be  cheated  out  of  something.  Girls 
always  think  there's  some  romance  coming,  and  they've  a 
right  to  their  castles  in  the  air." 


82  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Agnes  sewed  on  for  some  time  without  speaking. 

Then  she  said,  "  If  a  man  is  a  good  man,  is  that  enough? 
Do  you  think  it  makes  any  difference  if  he  isn't  her  equal 
mentally  ?  " 

Helen  laid  down  her  baby  tenderly,  arranged  her  dress, 
and  stood  looking  away  from  Agnes  as  she  answered,  "  It 
makes  all  the  difference  in  the  world.  Don't  ever  do  that. 
It  isn't  possible  for  a  woman  to  be  married  to  a  man  beneath 
her  intellectually  without  henpecking  him.  No  amount  of 
self -discipline  can  prevent  it." 

She  took  up  a  bit  of  crocheting,  some  soft  work  with  a 
baby  sweetness  in  its  color  and  form,  and  the  room  was  quiet 
again. 

Agnes  was  the  first  to  remember  that  Mrs.  Sidney  had 
been  left  alone  in  the  kitchen,  and  she  suggested  to  Helen 
that  they  take  their  work  and  join  their  mother. 

As  Helen  collected  her  zephyrs,  she  said  hesitatingly, 
"  When  mother  came  to  us,  she  told  me  something  about  Mr. 
Ballington.  Do  you — are  you " 

"  No,"  said  Agnes,  rising  and  turning  away.  "  I  think  I 
never  shall  marry,  Helen.  Anyway,  a  woman  can't  depend 
upon  marriage  to  form  her  life  for  her.  She  must  do  it  her 
self.  I  am  going  to  try  to  be  good  to  mother  and  take  care 
of  her."  She  waited,  then  added  in  a  broken  voice,  "  There's 
nothing  I  long  for  so  much  as  to  be  good  to  mother.  My 
future  can  look  after  itself." 


CHAPTER  II 

second  week  in  November  Helen  Mabie  went  back  to 
the  plains.  A  young  man  with  spectacles  and  sandy 
hair  sat  in  the  doctor's  office,  used  his  horse  and  buggy,  and 
ate  his  meals  with  the  doctor's  family.  Agnes  taught  daily 
and  sang  in  the  church  on  Sundays.  The  family  managed 
to  get  along  upon  her  earnings,  the  little  income  which  came 
from  Dr.  Quinn,  and  the  produce  of  the  farm.  There  was 
also  a  deposit  in  the  bank  which  grew  slowly  as  Mrs.  Sidney 
took  in  hand  the  collecting  of  the  doctor's  outstanding  bills. 

Agnes  now  had  given  up  all  hope  of  returning  to  college, 
but  since  she  had  tasted  the  salt  of  adversity  her  thirst  for 
knowledge  had  become  unquenchable.  She  gratified  the  crav 
ing  in  her  scant  leisure  by  solitary  study,  as  her  father  had 
done.  She,  too,  began  to  rise  early,  read  or  write  in  quiet 
and  loneliness,  walk  about  meditatively  in  the  back  garden 
among  the  stripped  vines  and  bushes.  She  found  her  father's 
books  and  papers  marked,  as  if  definitely  for  her.  And  there 
began  to  grow  up  during  that  winter,  which  to  outsiders 
appeared  to  be  so  barren  and  forlorn,  a  mental  and  moral 
companionship  with  her  father. 

Another  mind,  too,  was  exerting  an  increasing  influence 
upon  Agnes.  Miriam's  letters  had  grown  frequent,  and 
Agnes  turned  more  and  more  earnestly  to  the  stimulating 
mental  outlook  which  her  friend  kept  persistently  before  her. 
The  correspondence  put  a  sustained  glow  of  eagerness  into 
her  otherwise  hard-working  and  introspective  existence. 

A  few  days  before  Christmas,  in  answering  a  ring  of  the 
door-bell,  Agnes  found  herself  face  to  face  with  Donald 
Ballington.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  met  him  since  June. 
He  had  answered  her  dismissal  with  a  kind  note,  and  had  sent 
her  some  lilies  with  a  card  of  sympathy  shortly  after  Dr. 


84  THE     BALLINGTONS 

Sidney's  death.  What  had  touched  the  girl  more  was  the 
memory  of  Donald  among  a  group  of  Kent  men  who  stood 
on  the  walk  with  bared  heads  as  her  father's  casket  was  car 
ried  from  the  house. 

As  they  met  each  other,  now,  each  recognized  at  once  the 
difference  in  their  relation.  The  intense  sympathy  which  he 
felt  for  Agnes  relieved  his  manner  from  bashfulness,  and  she, 
now  out  in  a  world  where  all  are  striving,  achieving,  failing, 
was  less  conscious  of  herself  and  her  effect  upon  him. 

After  they  had  talked  on  impersonal  matters,  he  said  with 
a  recurrence  of  timidity,  "  Like  all  men  who  want  something 
very  much,  I  have  kept  a  little  hope  that  I  might  get  it  after 
all.  I  have  no  reason  to  speak  of  love  to  you  again.  It  might 
be  possible,  however,  that  among  the  other  changes  grief 
has  brought  you,  you  might  have  come  to  feel  differently 
about  me." 

Agnes  was  moved.  Yet,  at  his  words,  the  kindliness  in  her 
heart  for  him  froze  upon  her  lips.  She  felt  herself  harden 
ing  once  more  into  the  willful,  capricious,  but  honorable  girl 
who  had  repulsed  him  the  summer  before. 

"  I  wish  I  could  love  you,"  she  said.  "  I  am  afraid  there 
is  something  wrong  with  me  that  I  don't ;  but  in  order  to 
marry  you  I  ought  to  feel  something  for  you  which  I  do  not." 

"  I  won't  urge  you,"  he  replied  gravely,  "  I  did  not  come 
here  to  do  that.  But  there  is  a  saying,  you  know,  that  man 
loves  before  marriage,  and  woman  after.  I  sometimes  have 
thought  that  with  a  woman  of  your  spirit  there  might  be 
some  truth  in  the  latter  part  of  the  statement." 

"  Still,  I  could  not  take  the  step  feeling  as  I  do,"  she 
answered.  "  I  must  do  with  myself  what  I  can,  and  make  the 
most  of  my  life  here."  She  looked  up  with  a  smile  that  meant 
to  be  brave,  but  was  only  pitiful. 

His  heart  ached  for  her,  but  how  could  he  help  her?  He 
looked  down  at  the  floor  and  waited  for  her  to  speak  again. 

Presently  she  resumed,  with  a  frankness  that  relieved  the 
situation  and  placed  them  at  once  upon  a  basis  of  friendship. 
"  During  the  last  week  an  opportunity  has  presented  itself 


THE     BALLINGTONS  85 

which  my  mother  and  I  are  considering.  We  have  not  yet 
spoken  of  it  to  anyone  else.  Would  you  care  to  hear?  " 

"  I  should— thank  you !  " 

"  Mr.  Stoddard,  from  the  Schubert  Conservatory  of  Music 
in  New  York,  has  been  visiting  in  Kent.  He  heard  me  sing  in 
church  two  summers  ago  and  remembered  my  voice.  He  was 
interested  in  it  at  that  time,  but  knew  that  my  parents  pre 
ferred  a  quiet  life  for  me.  Now  that  I  am  obliged  to  earn  my 
living,  he  felt  at  liberty  to  come  to  see  me.  I  liked  his 
straightforwardness.  He  said  he  had  heard  better  voices, 
but  never  so  good  a  voice  in  combination  with  so  good  a  mind. 
He  compared  me  not  unfavorably  with  Caroline  Holt,  whom 
he  brought  out  in  oratorio  two  years  ago.  He  has  made  me 
a  generous  offer.  It  is  to  teach  me  for  three  years,  and  then 
to  bring  me  out  in  oratorio.  He  offers  to  take  me  into  his 
own  family,  and  to  get  me  a  church  position  in  New  York 
at  once  with  a  salary  of  eight  hundred  dollars  a  year ;  and  he 
will  ask  me  nothing  for  my  lessons  until  I  appear  in  ora 
torio." 

Agnes  paused.     Donald  said  nothing. 

"  Of  course,"  Agnes  continued,  "  if  it  were  anything  but 
oratorio  my  mother  never  would  consent,  or  if  I  were  to  go 
among  strangers.  Although  I  am  anxious  for  the  oppor 
tunity,  both  for  the  money  and  because  I  love  to  sing,  I 
should  not  go  without  her  approval.  I  shall  not  leave  any 
way  until  the  new  term  of  the  Conservatory  opens  in  Febru 
ary.  My  mother  is  to  decide  before  that  time." 

The  solemnity  which  hangs  about  decisions  that  are  to 
turn  the  course  of  lives  was  upon  them  both  as  she  finished. 
For  a  little  time  he  did  not  speak,  but  only  looked  at  her, 
loving  the  erect,  strong  pose  he  knew  so  well,  but  which  now 
was  suffused  with  something  he  never  had  seen  in  it  before — 
humility  which  softened  without  weakening  its  vigor. 

"  I  hope  that  whatever  you  decide  will  be  for  the  best,"  he 
said  at  last  as  he  rose  and  stood  looking  unhappily  toward 
her. 

Agnes,  too,  rose.     She  was  oppressed  with  a  feeling  that 


86  THE     BALLINGTONS 

this  parting  meant  the  severing  of  another  link  that  held 
her  to  her  girlhood.  Real  grief  and  affection  were  in  the  face 
she  lifted.  She  drew  a  short  breath  and  then  stood  quiet, 
her  hands  loosely  clasped  before  her  as  she  waited  for  his 
good-by. 

"  You  will  not  be  at  your  cousin's  wedding,  I  suppose?  " 
he  asked. 

"  No,  we  are  not  going." 

"  I  hear  from  Miss  Mott,  that,  when  they  return  here, 
there  is  to  be  a  supper  party  to  open  their  new  home.  Pos 
sibly  you  will  be  present?  " 

"  Possibly." 

"  I  shall  hope  to  see  you  there,  then." 

His  hand  was  on  the  door.  Then,  turning,  he  said  with  a 
dignity  which  she  never  had  seen  in  him  before.  "  This  is 
my  good-by  to  you  as  a  lover.  But  I  am  your  friend — now, 
and  always.  If  I  ever  can  help  you,  command  me.  I  want  to 
say  to  you,  also,  that  I  feel  deeply  your  kindness  to  me  to 
day.  I  thought  as  I  saw  you  sitting  there  that  I  never  saw 
before  so  womanly  a  grace  and  dignity.  God  bless  you !  " 


CHAPTER  III 

and  Beatrice  were  married  soon  after  New  Year's. 
Agnes  heard  repeatedly  from  Beatrice  meantime.  She 
wrote  gayly  of  her  trousseau,  of  the  house  General  Mott  was 
furnishing  in  Kent  for  their  country  home,  of  her  quarrel 
with  Fred  over  his  refusal  to  leave  work  long  enough  at  this 
time  for  a  European  trip,  of  her  concession  for  the  nonce 
in  order  to  bring  him  to  terms  when  once  his  wife.  There 
were  occasional  flighty  references  to  Tom,  to  Donald's  admi 
ration  for  Agnes,  and  now  and  then  some  innuendos  respecting 
Ferdinand  Ballington.  On  Christmas  Day  the  letter  which 
came  contained  a  twenty-dollar  bill  with  the  words  pinned  to 
it :  "  Buy  yourself  some  knickknack  and  think  of  Bee."  But 
with  all  the  good-will  and  unrestraint  of  the  letters  there  was 
never  a  repetition  of  the  intimate  confidence  which  Agnes  on 
one  occasion  had  known  from  Beatrice.  Indeed,  since  the  day 
Beatrice  had  cried  and  looked  her  love  for  Fred  against  her 
will,  Agnes  never  had  seen  her  off  guard,  and  she  wondered 
at  the  reserve  underneath  Beatrice's  apparent  candor  and 
carelessness. 

Fred  and  Beatrice  went  to  New  York  after  their  wedding, 
and  an  unusual  quiet  settled  down  in  Kent.  Agnes  did  not 
notice  it,  for  she  was  absorbed  in  her  work  and  study.  She 
wrote  twice  a  week  to  Miriam  Cass,  narrating  her  life  and 
thoughts  and  hopes  with  that  simplicity  and  honesty  which 
she  had  shown  to  Miriam  alone  of  all  the  world. 

One  evening  early  in  February  Agnes  was  attending  choir 
rehearsal  at  the  church.  She  was  standing  in  the  loft  with 
the  other  singers,  waiting  for  the  organist  to  strike  into  the 
last  anthem,  when  she  noticed  the  vestibule  door  open  and  a 
man's  dark  figure  enter  and  quietly  take  a  seat  in  the  rear  of 
the  church.  Although  the  auditorium  was  so  dimly  lighted 

87 


88  THE    BALLINGTONS 

by  the  few  gas  jets  in  the  choir  that  the  man's  face  was  in 
shadow,  she  felt  an  instant  shock  of  recognition.  She  sang 
through  her  recitative  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  her  to  be 
telling  the  curious  dread  and  happiness  which  she  felt,  and 
it  was  a  relief  to  her  when  other  voices  swelled  and  covered 
her  own.  It  was  not  unusual  for  escorts  to  call  for  the  sing 
ers,  and  no  one  in  the  loft  gave  more  than  a  passing  glance 
at  the  man  near  the  door. 

When  the  rehearsal  broke  up  he  rose  and  came  forward  to 
meet  Agnes.  As  her  eyes  rested  upon  the  advancing  figure 
there  swept  across  her  memory  the  odor  of  linden  blossoms. 
She  saw  a  man  standing  by  the  pillars  of  the  Ballington 
house,  looking  after  her  and  Donald  as  they  followed  Miriam 
and  Tom  down  the  path  to  the  gate. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Ballington !  "  said  Agnes  as  they  met  in  the 
aisle,  and  she  could  not  control  a  shake  in  her  voice,  "  is  it 
possible  that  you  have  remembered  me?  " 

Ferdinand  Ballington  did  not  answer  her  immediately. 
Instead  he  took  the  plaid  which  she  carried  on  her  arm, 
opened  it  and  folded  it  to  a  cape,  and  then  wrapped  it  around 
her  fall  jacket.  Their  eyes  met  as  he  drew  it  across  her 
shoulders,  and  she  noticed  that  he  was  looking  at  her  with  a 
deeper  intensity  than  that  which  she  had  observed  in  his  eyes 
the  summer  before. 

Then  he  said,  "  Yes.  I  have  remembered  you."  And  he 
added,  with  a  smile  which  subtly  challenged  her  perversity, 
"  You  are  to  come  home  with  me.  Your  mother  said  I  might 
call  here  for  you.  Are  you  ready  to  go  ?  " 

Agnes  had  a  whim  to  stay  where  she  was,  at  least  long 
enough  to  say,  "  Perhaps  I  won't  go  with  you  even  if  my 
mother  did  say  so,"  but  both  her  humor  and  her  shyness  were 
only  playing  over  a  flattered  acquiescence  which  was  imme 
diate  and  instinctive. 

They  left  the  church.  She  took  his  arm  and  they  walked 
some  distance  in  silence. 

"When  did  you  come  to  Kent?  "  she  asked,  speaking  first. 

"  An  hour  ago." 


THE    BALLINGTONS  89 

She  waited  some  seconds  for  him  to  take  the  initiative  in 
conversation,  and  then  asked  again,  "  It  is  unusual  for  you 
to  come  here,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Somewhat." 

Again  there  was  a  long  wait,  during  which  Agnes  listened 
to  the  crunch  of  the  snow  under'their  feet,  held  up  her  face 
to  the  drifting  flakes,  and  promised  herself  that  she  would 
walk  the  remaining  blocks  in  silence  rather  than  speak 
first  again.  Ferdinand's  content,  however,  over  what  he  had 
already  accomplished,  and  ardent  determinations  for  the 
future  which  were  going  on  in  his  mind  were  so  satisfying 
that  he  was  unaware  of  the  girl's  uneasiness.  He  came  sud 
denly  to  the  realization  of  it  when  he  felt  her  withdraw  her 
hand  from  his  arm,  and,  looking  at  her  in  inquiry,  was 
answered  by  a  glance  half  roguish  and  half  petulant,  which 
said  as  plainly  as  words,  "  I  can  walk  alone,  too." 

"  Put  it  back  again,"  said  Ferdinand,  standing  still  in  the 
street. 

Agnes  laughed  and  replaced  her  hand.  "  Why  don't  you 
talk  to  me?  "  she  asked. 

"  That  isn't  necessary,"  he  replied. 

"  Then  I  will  give  in  and  talk  to  you.  There  are  many 
things  I  want  to  ask  you.  I  hope  Mrs.  Ballington  and  her 
sons  are  well." 

"  I  believe  they  are.  I  haven't  been  in  Winston  for  a 
week." 

He  was  returning  to  his  home  then.  That  accounted  for 
his  passing  through  Kent. 

While  she  was  thinking  of  something  else  to  say,  a  remi 
niscent  smile  came  to  Ferdinand  Ballington's  lips,  and  pres 
ently  he  looked  down  upon  her  in  amusement.  "  Your  an 
them,"  he  said,  "  made  me  think  of  the  time  my  mother  made 
me  commit  the  twenty-third  Psalm  to  memory.  I  was  six 
years  old,  and  the  only  thing  that  aroused  any  interest  in  me 
was  the  phrase,  '  Thou  anointest  my  head  with  oil.' ' 

Agnes  looked  up  and  caught  his  expression.  She  was  con 
scious  of  a  disagreeable  sensation,  but  she  answered  natu- 


90  THE    BALLINGTONS 

rally,  "  I  learned  it  too,  when  I  was  little.  It's  a  lovely 
psalm.  I  like  to  sing  it." 

"  What  do  you  find  lovely  in  it?  "  pursued  Ferdinand, 
still  regarding  her. 

Agnes  hesitated,  then  tried  to  tell  him  what  he  had  asked. 
"  I  think  it  is  the  quiet.  Then  there  is  a  lovely  landscape. 
But,  most  of  all,  it's  the  something  underneath  the  quiet — the 
rapture  of  gratitude.  Every  time  I  read  it  I  can  feel  the 
same  thing  welling  up  in  me,  as  clear  and  full  as  the  still 
waters."  She  lifted  her  face  with  an  eagerness  of  look  which 
Ferdinand  had  early  noticed  in  her,  and  exclaimed,  "  How 
surprised  the  shepherd  David  would  have  been  if  he  could 
have  looked  on  all  the  peoples  who  should  sing  his  song !  It's 
a  wonderful  thing  for  a  song  to  fill  the  whole  earth." 

Ferdinand  watched  her,  enjoying  the  effect  which  the  Sid 
ney  eyes  and  the  naivete  of  mind  which  he  felt  in  Agnes 
made  upon  him.  "  She  has  the  eyes  of  a  strange  woman  and 
the  heart  of  a  child,"  he  reflected,  pleased  at  his  Biblical 
phraseology. 

Her  enthusiasm  for  David,  however,  was  a  little  trying, 
and  he  could  not  help  replying,  although  indulgently,  "  David 
had  all  the  attributes  of  a  good  musician,  so  it  is  only  right 
that  his  song  should  fill  the  earth;  but  it's  rather  hard  on 
the  Deity  that  such  a  man  should  be  spoken  of  as  after  the 
Lord's  own  heart — a  man  who  committed  every  crime  in  the 
calendar." 

"  The  times  were  different  then,"  explained  Agnes  earnestly, 
"  and  he  sincerely  repented."  She  was  surprised  and  hurt 
at  her  companion's  levity  in  speaking  of  the  sweet  singer  of 
Israel. 

The  gentle  dignity  which  came  over  her  with  the  words 
and  the  open  look  she  gave  him  as  she  raised  her  cold-flushed 
face  to  his  stirred  the  young  man's  longings.  She  drew  her 
plaid  closer  about  her  throat,  and  the  movement  called  his 
attention  to  the  fact  that  it  was  the  only  bit  of  color  she  wore. 
He  was  not  ordinarily  intuitive,  but  he  could  not  fail  to 
see  the  poverty  which  strove  thus  to  supplement  the  mourn- 


THE     BALLINGTONS  91 

ing  garments  which  were  insufficient  against  the  winter  cold. 
He  drew  her  arm  more  firmly  within  his  own,  and  saw 
visions  of  sealskins  which  he  hoped  one  day  to  bestow  upon 
her. 

The  silence  between  them  became  so  grave  that  Ferdinand 
aroused  himself  and  asked  her  if  she  still  kept  up  her  interest 
in  Winston  College. 

The  girl's  expression  changed  instantly.  "  Yes,  indeed," 
she  replied ;  "  my  class  graduates  this  year." 

"  You  lose  little  by  not  being  among  them,"  Ferdinand 
returned  considerately.  "  The  college  is  too  old-fashioned 
and  Puritanical.  Those  Puritan  ancestors  of  ours  are  a 
nuisance." 

Agnes  looked  up  again  disturbed.  Why  should  he  speak 
like  this  ?  "  How  can  you  say  that  of  men  who  did  what 
they  have  done  ?  "  she  demanded  with  quick  rebuke.  "  Think 
of  living  your  whole  life  for  duty  and  principle." 

"  But  supposing  there  were  no  such  thing  as  principle, 
only  custom?  "  he  queried. 

"  No  such  thing  as  principle ! "  exclaimed  Agnes  in  aston 
ishment.  Unconsciously  she  stopped  walking,  and  her  next 
words  were  accompanied  by  a  gesture  that  implied  finality. 
"  You  don't  know  my  mother !  " 

Then  she  resolved  to  bring  the  conversation  up  out  of  deep 
water.  "  Does  Tom  Ballington  play  the  flute  now?  "  she 
asked  determinedly. 

Ferdinand  preferred  the  Puritans  to  Tom  as  a  subject  of 
conversation,  but  he  answered  with  patient  courtesy,  "  I 
believe  he  has  given  it  up.  Metal  work  is  his  fad,  now." 

"  I  think  you  said  you  are  not  a  musician,"  Agnes  con 
tinued  in  a  business-like  tone. 

"  No,  I  never  have  been  able  to  afford  that  luxury." 

"  You  are  fond  of  music,  though,  aren't  you?  " 

"  I  like  to  watch  you  sing." 

"  Thanks,"  she  said  with  some  hauteur.  "  But  I  didn't 
mean  that.  I  meant  really  good  music." 

"  Don't  you  consider  your  own  music  good?  " 


92  THE    BALLINGTONS 

He  thought  of  her  abandon  in  singing  at  Winston  as  he 
spoke,  and  immediately  afterwards  of  the  quiet  with  which 
she  then  had  met  his  compliment.  The  fire  and  vitality  of 
the  girl  stimulated  him,  but  those  moods  of  dignity  and  con 
trol  which  unexpectedly  crossed  her  spirits  checked  and  baf 
fled  him. 

She  spoke  in  one  of  these  now  as  she  answered  him.  "  No. 
I  used  to,  but  I've  learned  better.  I  know  I  have  an  uncom 
mon  voice,  but  it  needs  much  work  upon  it." 

There  was  a  purpose  in  her  words  which  moved  him  to  say, 
"  You  speak  as  though  you  were  ambitious  to  become  a 
singer?  "  There  was  a  certain  hardness  in  his  tone,  and 
involuntarily  he  checked  their  pace  in  order  to  gain  time  for 
argument,  for  they  were  approaching  Agnes'  home. 

"  I  am.  It  is  my  talent.  I  don't  want  to  wrap  it  in  a 
napkin." 

They  reached  the  gate  as  she  replied,  but  he  delayed  to 
open  while  he  still  held  her  hand  within  his  arm.  "  The  walk 
has  been  too  short,"  he  said,  with  unmistakable  regret.  "  I 
wish  it  had  been  long  enough  for  me  to  convince  you  that  the 
career  of  a  professional  singer  is  too  hard  and  too  thankless 
a  one  for  you.  Perhaps  we  may  continue  the  conversation 
some  other  time." 

Agnes  made  no  reply,  and  Ferdinand  opened  the  gate  and 
allowed  her  to  precede  him  up  the  steps. 

As  she  turned  at  the  top  to  speak  to  him,  he  carefully 
removed  her  shawl  from  her  shoulders  and  was  folding  it  up, 
when  the  front  door  opened  and  a  party  of  callers  just  leav 
ing  blocked  the  doorway.  As  Agnes  stepped  past  them  into 
the  hall  she  was  embarrassed  to  recognize  in  the  callers  John 
Talbot,  his  wife  Molly,  and  their  three-year-old  boy.  Talbot 
was  a  brakeman,  and  had  been  a  member  of  her  father's  Sun 
day-school  class.  Before  ninety-nine  people  out  of  a  hundred 
Agnes  was  rather  proud  than  otherwise  to  greet  the  humbler 
of  her  acquaintance.  Unfortunately  she  had  with  her  to 
night  the  hundredth  man,  and  she  was  mortified  by  the  inevi 
table  introduction.  Mrs.  Sidney,  however,  was  untroubled 


THE     BALLINGTONS  93 

by  incongruities,  and  took  the  occasion  to  tell  Mr.  Balling- 
ton  that  if  he  were  as  good  a  man  as  Talbot  by  the  time  he 
reached  the  brakeman's  age  he  might  be  satisfied  with  him 
self. 

"  Get  a  lump  of  sugar  for  Sidney,  Agnes,"  said  Mrs.  Sid 
ney  as  the  child  was  ready  for  the  evening  ride  home.  "  I 
always  let  my  children  have  sweets,  Mr.  Ballington.  Chil 
dren  need  sweet  things,  and  it  does  them  good." 

"  I  believe  Herbert  Spencer  says  the  same  thing,"  re 
sponded  Mr.  Ballington. 

"  Does  he  ?  Well,  he  is  right.  Good-by ,  John.  Good- 
by,  Molly.  We'll  be  out  to  dinner  on  Wednesday.  Agnes, 
John  and  Molly  have  asked  us  out  to  a  boiled  dinner  next 
Wednesday.  Kiss  Auntie  Sidney  good-by,  Sidney ! " 

Agnes  closed  the  door  behind  the  visitors  with  a  feeling  of 
relief,  and  returned  to  the  parlor  in  time  to  hear  her  mother 
saying  to  the  hundredth  man,  "  Yes,  I  like  a  boiled  dinner, 
and  so  does  Agnes.  A  little  pork  cooked  with  the  corned- 
beef  improves  it." 

Agnes  did  like  a  boiled  dinner  with  a  little  pork  cooked 
with  the  corned-beef,  but  now  she  blushed  at  her  tastes.  She 
was  desperate  to  change  the  topic  under  discussion. 

Ferdinand  observed  her  embarassment,  and  with  a  conver 
sational  inspiration  came  to  her  relief.  He  felt  it  desirable 
to  get  on  friendly  terms  with  Agnes'  mother  as  soon  as  possi 
ble,  and  he  combined  chivalry  with  business  by  remarking, 
"  Your  old-fashioned  church  building  has  a  dignity  which 
the  new  churches  nowadays  can't  get.  I  am  surprised  that 
your  congregation  had  the  wisdom  to  keep  it  as  it  is." 

Mrs.  Sidney's  face  kindled.  "  How  glad  I  am  to  hear  you 
say  that !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  It  was  Stephen  and  I  who  saved 
the  old  church.  Most  people  like  the  new  ones  best.  Did  you 
notice  the  walnut  wood-work?  " 

Ferdinand  replied  mendaciously  in  the  affirmative,  and 
then  described  his  mother's  fruitless  struggle  to  save  the  old 
church  building  in  Winston. 

Agnes  felt  a  fascination  in  the  gravity  and  directness  of 


94  THE     BALLINGTONS 

this  controlled  man.  She  knew  that  there  were  strong  emo 
tions  underneath,  and  something  told  her  that  these  were  for 
her.  -She  sat  a  little  back  of  her  mother  and  watched  their 
caller  as  he  talked  to  Mrs.  Sidney. 

When  he  rose  to  leave,  Agnes  went  with  him  into  the  hall. 

He  put  on  his  ulster  with  its  heavy  cape,  and  then  said, 
as  he  stood  hat  in  hand,  "  I  shall  remember  this  evening. 
Have  I  your  permission  to  come  again  ?  " 

"  Come  whenever  you  are  in  town,"  she  answered,  and  as 
she  said  the  words  she  felt  them  to  acknowledge  even  then  a 
bond. 

"  I  shall  make  it  a  point  to  be  in  town,"  he  returned  with 
out  smiling.  Then  he  said  good-night  and  opened  the  door. 

Agnes  stepped  forward  to  close  it,  and  as  she  did  so  he 
turned  upon  the  veranda  and  looked  at  her.  Then  he  put  on 
his  hat,  and  she  heard  his  footsteps,  with  a  very  slight  drag 
of  the  left  foot,  going  down  the  path. 

"  Come  here,  Agnes,"  called  her  mother  from  the  sitting- 
room.  "  I  want  you  to  read  the  letter  I  have  written  to  Mr. 
Stoddard.  I've  told  him  you  can  come  to  New  York." 

For  weeks  Agnes  hardly  had  dared  to  hope  for  this  news. 
Now  she  hesitated,  then  excused  herself  from  her  mother,  and 
went  at  once  upstairs.  She  retired  in  the  dark,  re-living  his 
last  look.  She  felt  a  fire  flare  through  her  veins,  and  with  it 
stole  a  strange  faintness — the  fever  and  languor  as  old  as 
human  love. 


CHAPTER   IV 

A  WEEK  passed,  and  Ferdinand  came  again.  Agnes  soon 
•^  began  to  look  for  him  every  Thursday.  She  put  off 
going  to  New  York  until  the  following  fall,  and  meantime 
life  in  Kent  had  taken  on  splendor.  Ferdinand  was  ac 
customed  to  call  for  her  at  the  church  at  the  close  of  the 
early  choir  rehearsal,  and  they  would  walk  home  together. 
There  they  would  find  the  shades  drawn,  the  lamps  lighted, 
a  back-log  blazing  in  the  old-fashioned  brick  fire-place,  where 
they  toasted  bread  and  cheese  and  roasted  chestnuts  in  the 
ashes.  They  could  hear  the  wind  and  snow  and  hail  outside, 
and  sometimes  Winter  would  come  in  to  stand  before  the  open 
fire  in  the  square  person  of  Dr.  Quinn,  covered  with  icicles 
from  a  long  country  ride. 

Sometimes  they  would  talk  and  read  until  late,  but  com 
monly  they  gave  up  part  or  all  of  the  time  to  another  enter 
tainment.  Mrs.  Sidney  long  ago  had  sat  in  judgment  upon 
popular  games.  "  We'll  have  to  keep  a  close  rein  on  Agnes. 
She's  hankering  after  gambling  games,"  she  once  had  warned 
her  husband,  whereupon  the  doctor  exhibited  a  characteristic 
method  of  his  in  dealing  with  dangerous  allurements,  namely, 
— the  substitution  for  them  of  something  more  attractive 
which  was  at  the  same  time  innocuous.  The  result  was  that 
he  introduced  into  their  circle  in  Kent  the  Rajah  of  amuse 
ments,  which  stands  with  a  smile  of  oriental  subtlety  equally 
aloof  from  vulgar  chance  or  stupid  mathematics,  the  only 
game  worthy  of  great  men — chess. 

Agnes  was  a  brilliant  chess-player.  Singularly  enough, 
chess  happened  to  be  the  one  indoor  recreation  which  Ferdi 
nand  professed  to  enjoy,  and  he  proposed  the  game  himself. 
Agnes  brought  out  with  pride  the  unique  set  of  antique 

95 


96  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Ivories,  which  had  been  given  to  her  father  along  with  other 
curios,  by  a  Chinaman  whose  family  he  had  attended  for 
years.  Evening  after  evening  Ferdinand  and  she  sat  op 
posite  each  other,  silent  as  idols,  while  between  them  a  mimic 
war  was  waged  by  warriors  yellow  with  age.  Powers  ad 
vanced  and  laid  down  their  lives  in  defense  of  their  sovereign 
and  his  courtiers ;  knights  challenged  each  other  haughtily ; 
perilous  intrigues  were  carried  on  between  bishops  and 
queens ;  castles  were  stormed ;  even  kings  now  and  then  made 
an  independent  strut  under  cover  of  their  retinue;  and 
through  it  all  the  idols  sat  huge  and  impassive,  watching 
each  set  of  puppets  play  out  their  desperate  game,  and  then 
sweeping  them  from  the  board  to  watch  another  campaign 
on  the  same  field  between  the  same  warriors  in  another  gen 
eration,  with  other  plots  covering  the  same  passions. 

At  first  Agnes  held  her  own,  but  soon  she  began  to  be 
afraid  of  that  firm  hand  encircled  with  the  stiff  cuff-rim,  as 
it  moved  slowly  back  and  forth  over  the  board,  and  before 
long  she  acknowledged  to  herself  her  inability  to  cope  with 
its  owner.  One  thing  consoled  her  pride:  that  although  Fer 
dinand  now  usually  won,  he  never  showed  a  disposition  to 
give  her  points,  or  to  offer  her  any  other  advantage,  and  she 
interpreted  this  as  courtesy. 

Perhaps  owing  to  her  realization  of  his  superior  mental 
discipline,  Agnes  cherished  the  more  her  power  over  him. 
She  knew  that  if  she  wished  she  could  with  a  glance  discon 
cert  him  for  the  moment,  and  cause  hesitation  in  his  speech. 
But  he  never  showed  confusion.  His  pauses  were  at  times 
conspicuous,  but  when  that  indomitable  voice  began  again, 
it  always  was  under  command,  the  train  of  thought  never 
suffered,  the  man's  mental  vision  never  blurred. 

One  evening  in  May  when  they  had  been  standing  by  the 
open  window  to  smell  the  budding  grape-vines,  Agnes  said  to 
him,  "  My  cousin  Fred  and  his  wife  returned  yesterday. 
They  are  to  have  a  supper  party  Monday  at  their  home  on 
West  Hill.  Beatrice  told  me  to  tell  you  that  she  would  be 
happy  to  have  you  come.  Your  cousins  are  coming  over  from 


THE    BALLINGTONS  97 

Winston."  She  waited  a  moment  and  added  one  sentence 
more,  "  I  hope  you  can  come,"  and  she  colored  vividly. 

Ferdinand  hesitated.  She  thought  that  he  was  about  to 
decline.  Her  suspicion  of  antagonism  between  him  and 
Beatrice  recurred  to  her,  nor  was  this  suspicion  entirely  dis 
pelled  when  a  moment  later  he  asked,  "  I  may  accompany 
you?" 

"  Yes,  thank  you.    That  will  be  pleasant." 

All  day  Monday  a  storm  threatened.  Light  thunder 
rumbled  fitfully  from  time  to  time,  and  lightning  flashed, 
but  the  rain  waited  for  the  ominous  afternoon  to  pass. 

Ferdinand  came  for  her  with  a  carriage,  and  although  the 
drops  were  not  yet  falling,  he  held  his  umbrella  over  her  as  she 
hurried  down  the  path.  As  he  opened  the  gate  a  gust  of 
wind  tore  the  honeysuckle  vine  from  the  veranda.  The 
horses  were  pawing  and  tossing  their  heads.  Ferdinand 
helped  her  into  the  coupe  and  entered  it  after  her. 

She  shivered  as  the  door  of  the  carriage  shut  with  its 
clean  click,  and  drew  her  cape  close.  "  I  like  this,"  she  said 
with  tingling  nerves.  "  You  are  early,  though.  We  shall 
be  the  first  guests,"  and  her  tawny  eyes  darkened  as  she 
looked  at  him. 

"  I  did  so  purposely,"  he  answered. 

The  driver  touched  up  his  horses,  and  they  rode  straight 
into  the  storm.  A  black  pall  rose  higher  up  the  sky  as  they 
advanced.  Now  and  then  a  flash  of  lightning  pierced  the 
gloom.  To  the  south  along  the  horizon  a  bank  of  clouds 
rolled  up  like  flame.  They  and  the  drifting  rain  above  them 
looked  like  a  prairie  on  fire.  Suddenly  the  first  gust  whipped 
the  windows ;  there  was  a  dash  of  water,  a  salute  of  thunder, 
a  hiss  of  rain  driving  against  them,  and  then  they  seemed 
plunged  into  a  wild  tumult.  A  pair  of  crows  passed,  driven 
on  heavy  wings  before  the  wind.  As  they  approached  the 
base  of  the  hill  a  drove  of  horses  in  a  meadow  were  rush 
ing  panic-stricken  hither  and  thither,  and  night  was  clos 
ing  in. 

Now  they  had  reached  the  fork  of  the  road.     Off  to  the 


98  THE     BALLINGTONS 

left  Fred  and  Beatrice  were  waiting  for  their  guests.  The 
horses  veered  to  the  right  and  raced  along  the  road  that 
skirted  the  foot-hill. 

For  a  delirious  second  Agnes  did  not  correct  the  driver's 
mistake.  She  let  herself  give  up  to  an  ecstatic  fancy  that  she 
was  being  kidnapped  and  carried  away  in  mad  flight  to  the 
fortresses  of  the  mountains.  The  next  second  she  exclaimed, 
"  Stop  him !  He  is  going  the  wrong  way." 

She  was  struck  with  the  strange  sound  of  her  voice,  and 
recollected  that  neither  of  them  had  spoken  during  the  ride. 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?  "  asked  Ferdinand,  in  a  low  tone. 

"  No,"  she  said  after  a  moment. 

It  was  the  only  time  they  had  been  alone  together  except 
during  the  walks  from  choir  rehearsal.  Mrs.  Sidney's  inde 
fatigable  presence  when  her  daughter  received  callers  had 
been  turned  into  a  maxim  by  Fred,  who  once  said  that  for  a 
man  to  make  a  success  of  business  he  must  stick  to  it  as  Aunt 
Kate  did  to  the  parlor  when  Agnes  had  company. 

"  The  driver  is  following  directions,"  said  Ferdinand. 
"  He  will  take  us  to  your  cousin's  in  time.  I  have  something 
to  say  to  you — and  I  wanted  you  alone." 

*'  Yes  ?  "  said  Agnes,  quivering. 

There  was  a  very  long  pause.  By  a  sudden  flare  of  light 
ning  she  saw  that  his  face  was  drawn  hard  with  emotion. 

"  I  cannot  live  without  you !  You  are  like  light  and  air !  " 
he  said,  and  he  put  out  his  arms  and  drew  her  to  him  pas 
sionately. 

She  did  not  resist.  The  carriage,  the  hills,  the  whole  world 
reeled,  as  she  felt  the  violence  of  his  embrace.  When  she 
heard  his  voice  again,  there  was  a  new  tone  in  it,  a  vibration 
which  thrilled  her  from  head  to  foot. 

"  When  will  you  marry  me?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.    My  mother  must  say." 

"Let  it  be  soon." 

"  Yes." 

He  sat  now  with  one  arm  about  her,  the  other  tense  hand 
holding  hers.  Her  cape  became  disarranged,  and  one  by  one 


THE    BALLINGTONS  99 

the  petals  of  the  orchids  he  had  given  her,  and  which  she  wore 
at  her  breast,  fell  upon  their  clasped  hands. 

After  a  time  the  driver  turned  and  started  back  the  way 
they  had  come.  The  rain  fell  in  a  steady  downpour  around 
them. 

"What  are  you  thinking?  "  Agnes  whispered. 

"  That  I  should  like  to  kiss  you.    Will  you  let  me?  " 

He  felt  her  face  lifting  to  his,  and  presently  he  said, 
"  That  is  the  first  love-kiss  I  have  ever  given  a  woman,  and 
no  other  than  you  shall  ever  know  one  from  me." 

"  When  did  you  first  care  for  me?  " 

"  When  I  was  born." 

At  last  they  heard  the  splash  of  another  carriage  passing 
them;  they  felt  the  tug  of  the  horses  as  they  ascended  the 
incline  of  the  driveway;  there  were  sounds  from  the  porte- 
cochere  ;  the  carriage  stopped,  and  the  door  was  opened  from 
the  outside. 

Agnes  stepped  out,  and  went  through  the  hall  and  up  the 
stairs  ahead  of  her  escort.  She  let  the  maid  remove  her  wraps 
as  in  a  dream,  and  did  not  speak  to  some  acquaintances  who 
were  leaving  the  dressing-room.  Ferdinand  waited  for  her 
impatiently  in  the  upper  hall.  They  passed  along  the  heav 
ily-paneled  corridor  between  the  rows  of  palms.  The  orchids 
were  gone ;  nothing  relieved  the  black  of  her  attire. 

Beatrice,  with  arms  and  neck  heavy  with  topazes,  came  for 
ward  affectionately.  "  Agnes !  "  she  cried  eagerly. 

Her  expression  changed  as  she  saw  the  look  on  the  girl's 
face.  Her  manner  was  more  subdued  as  she  kissed  Agnes 
and  her  eyes  rested  upon  her  questioningly  as  she  released 
her. 

Then  she  turned  to  Ferdinand  with  a  frank  stare.  "  To 
think  you  actually  came!  Of  course  I  am  delighted  to  see 
you." 

Immediately  upon  the  last  words  she  took  Ferdinand  by 
the  elbow  with  one  hand,  made  a  large  gesture  with  the  other, 
announced  with  intolerable  effusiveness,  "  An  old  family 
friend,  Ferdinand  Ballington,"  and  then  suddenly  turned 


100  THE    BALLINGTONS 

away,  leaving  Ferdinand  in  the  midst  of  a  stiff  bow  to  a 
semi-circle  of  ducking  people  in  front  of  him. 

One  man  in  the  semi-circle  grew  into  prominence  from  the 
fact  that  he  did  not  bow.  Agnes  recognized  him,  caught  the 
glance  which  passed  between  him  and  Beatrice,  a  glance 
which  spoke  unmistakable  dislike  of  Ferdinand,  and  a  con 
sternation  which  she  instinctively  felt  was  for  herself.  The 
man  was  Tom  Ballington. 


CHAPTER  V 

T  ATER  that  evening,  after  her  guests  had  said  good-night, 
Beatrice  drew  a  breath  of  relief  and  strolled  into  the 
conservatory  off  the  drawing-room.  Fred  was  outside  seeing 
the  last  carriage  away  from  the  house.  The  conservatory 
faced  the  village  in  the  valley  and  from  its  window  Beatrice 
could  see  the  lights  of  the  town.  The  storm  was  over  and  the 
moon  showed  dark  clumps  of  wet  foliage  upon  the  hillside.  A 
syringa  bush  moved  its  dripping  branches  just  outside  and 
brushed  against  the  lattice.  Above  her  hung  a  tropical 
creeper  over-trailing  its  moss  cage,  and  its  florid,  yellow 
flowers  just  touched  her  hair. 

She  stood  in  relaxed  content  waiting  for  her  husband. 
The  evening  had  gone  successfully.  Fred's  looks  had  satis 
fied  her  pride  and  it  had  given  her  pleasure  to  present  him 
to  his  townsfolk  as  the  master  of  her  luxurious  establishment. 
Fred  had  behaved  irreproachably  in  acceding  to  every  sug 
gestion  she  had  expressed  so  far  as  to  the  arrangement  of 
their  domestic  affairs.  The  time  was  ripe  at  last,  she  felt, 
for  her  to  broach  the  subject  of  his  leaving  the  bank.  She 
was  congratulating  herself  on  her  patience  and  self-control 
in  having  let  that  matter  rest  until  she  was  sure  of  conduct 
ing  it  to  a  happy  issue,  when  she  heard  her  husband's  voice 
calling  her. 

"  Here  I  am  in  the  conservatory !  "  she  returned  buoyantly. 

A  moment  later  Fred  entered.  His  face  lighted  with 
pleasure  as  he  caught  sight  of  her  before  the  window.  The 
tropical  glow  of  color  in  the  creeper  and  the  topazes,  the 
shining  folds  of  her  satin  gown,  the  drift  of  laces  that  fell 
from  arms  and  bosom,  the  rich  tints  of  hair,  face  and  shoul 
ders,  the  grace  and  latent  strength  of  the  young  figure,  filled 
him  with  the  triumph  of  possession.  To-night  it  was  accom- 

101 


102  THE     BALLINGTONS 

panied  by  an  anxiety  which  he  tried  to  disguise  from  himself. 
He  approached  her,  'and  stood  looking  at  her  thoughtfully. 

Beatrice  did  not  seem  to  notice  his  silence,  however,  and 
presently  she  put  a  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Come  over  here,  Fred.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  she  said, 
drawing  him  over  to  the  bench  under  the  window. 

The  window-sill  was  banked  with  violets,  whose  damp  odor 
in  after  years  always  brought  with  it  a  fleeting  memory  of  a 
moon-lit  conservatory  with  palms  and  tropic  creepers  and  a 
dark  woman  in  amber  jewels. 

Beatrice  slipped  down  to  a  stool  at  Fred's  feet  and  threw 
an  arm  over  his  knees. 

"  How  wonderful  Agnes  looked  to-night,"  she  said  remi- 
niscently.  "  That  was  a  made-over  dress  she  had  on,  too. 
How  she  carries  those  plain  things."  Beatrice  looked  down 
at  her  own  jewels. 

Then  she  took  down  her  arm  and  leaned  her  head  against 
his  knee.  Both  were  preoccupied,  and  for  some  moments 
they  waited  in  quiet.  She  was  thinking  how  she  would  sug 
gest  that  they  travel  for  a  time,  when  he  had  left  the  bank, 
then  perhaps  go  into  diplomatic  life.  For  Beatrice  loved 
the  world:  its  excitement,  brilliance,  intrigues  and  display. 
She  was  not  morally  sensitive,  although  she  had  shrewdly 
pitched  her  affections  upon  a  husband  who  would  not  have 
to  be  watched.  That  would  leave  time  and  energy  for  other 
things.  She  felt  sure  that  no  amount  of  freedom  or  even 
extravagance  would  corrupt  Fred.  The  question  was  how  to 
launch  him. 

Fred  was  thinking  that  he  had  missed  getting  hold  of  that 
serious-mindedness  in  his  wife  which  he  had  divined  in  his 
betrothed.  A  turmoil  attendant  upon  the  building  and  fur 
nishing  of  the  great  house  had  swept  them  apart  in  the  weeks 
preceding  and  following  the  wedding.  Their  attention  had 
been  focused  on  material  things.  His  longing  for  a  closer 
intimacy  in  the  noblest  sense  had  been  disappointed.  There 
was  no  time  for  it.  He  saw  a  hereditary  impulse  in  Beatrice 
to  indulge  herself  and  those  whom  she  loved  without  stint  in 


THE     BALLINGTONS  103 

the  good  things  of  this  world.  In  time  it  would  become  all 
of  life  to  her,  as  it  was  to  her  father.  She  never  had  had  the 
discipline  of  self-denial  as  a  preliminary  to  attainment.  The 
trend  of  her  life  had  been  toward  enjoyment  of  easily-gotten 
luxuries,  an  enjoyment  which  in  weak  natures  easily  de 
generates  into  monstrous  riot ;  but  Beatrice  was  not  weak,  and 
Fred  saw  that  in  her  the  tendency  was  not  toward  intemper 
ance  of  the  senses,  but  rather  in  the  line  of  craving  for  emo 
tional  excitement.  Restlessness  was  growing  upon  her.  He 
must  touch  in  her  the  dormant  longing  for  the  real  things  of 
life  end  awaken  her  from  the  phantasmagoria  which  she  had 
hitherto  regarded.  He  thought  of  a  way  to  lead  up  to  the 
subject,  and  he  was  unconscious  that  the  way  he  chose  was 
a  peace-offering  to  his  own  hurt  pride.  He  leaned  over  and 
tried  to  put  into  her  hand  a  roll  of  bills. 

"What  is  that  for,  Fred?"  she  asked,  drawing  her  hand 
away  sharply.  She  was  on  the  alert  at  once  and  looked  up 
keenly  to  meet  his  answering  look  of  determination. 

In  a  flash  the  benevolent  schemes  of  both  for  the  future 
were  lost  sight  of  in  the  clash  of  will  over  something  near  by. 
The  trifle  which  Fred  had  intended  to  introduce  a  spiritual 
union  all  at  once  became  ultimate. 

"  For  my  tuxedo,"  he  replied  briefly. 

Beatrice  made  a  gesture  of  dissent.  "  That's  all  right," 
she  said  nonchalantly ;  "  I  gave  it  to  you.  You  didn't  really 
need  it,  as  you  said.  I  wanted  you  to  have  it." 

Fred's  expression  was  gentle.  He,  as  well  as  Beatrice, 
was  endeavoring  to  conciliate.  "  It  is  natural  for  you  to  be 
generous,  Beatrice,  and  I  know  you  mean  it  kindly.  But  we 
must  understand  each  other  before  it  gets  any  harder.  I 
didn't  say  anything  at  first.  Buy  what  you  like  for  yourself 
besides  what  little  I  can  give  you.  Nobody  knows  how  glad 
I  would  be  if  I  could  have  given  all  this  to  you."  His  gesture 
took  in  their  surroundings.  "  As  it  is,  the  only  thing  that  can 
give  me  any  self-respect  is  to  stop  being  a  pensioner  and  live 
within  my  salary." 

"  Salary !  "      Beatrice   spoke   with  unrestrained   but   not 


104  THE     BALLINGTONS 

irritable  feeling.  "  Oh,  Fred,  why  do  you  talk  about  salary  ? 
This  is  all  yours  as  much  as  it  is  mine.  Look  at  the  money 
we  have,  dearest,  my  General  and  you  and  I !  What  is  the 
use  of  your  spending  your  youth  in  Bucher's  penny-bank? 
You  belong  to  our  family  now." 

Fred's  color  rose.  "  I  never  should  have  asked  you  to 
marry  me,  Beatrice,"  he  replied  still  gently,  "  if  I  had  not 
promised  myself  a  different  relation.  I  felt  that  I  had  some 
thing  to  give,  as  well  as  you;  but  so  far  I  have  been  only  a 
receiver." 

"  Nonsense,  Fred !  "  said  Beatrice  heartily.  "  You  have 
given  me  everything  you  had.  In  spirit  you  have  given  me 
the  whole  world,  and  that  is  the  whole  thing.  Don't  let's 
haggle  over  details.  What  does  it  matter  whether  a  few 
thousands  of  dollars  come  from  the  Mott  side  or  the  Sidney 
side  ?  It's  all  in  the  family." 

There  was  reserve  in  Fred's  tone  as  he  rejoined,  "  I  can't 
consider  myself  as  having  any  right  to  your  father's  money, 
Beatrice.  That  is  all  in  your  family,  not  ours." 

Beatrice  sat  up  and  wheeled  round  to  face  him.  "  I  am 
my  father's  only  child,"  she  said  crisply. 

She  caught  a  curious  flicker  on  Fred's  face,  and  her  own 
darkened  instantly. 

"  Don't  you  ever  dare  to  put  that  thought  in  words !  "  she 
said  with  suppressed  fury.  "  I'll  not  listen  to  one  word 
against  my  father  from  you,  of  all  men  in  the  world."  She 
sprang  to  her  feet  and  stood  over  him  threateningly. 

After  a  moment  Fred  spoke  in  a  deprecating  tone. 
"  Surely  you  don't  think  me  capable  of  that,  Beatrice."  But 
his  look  had  probed  to  the  sore  place  under  Beatrice's 
loyalty. 

"  To  think  a  thing  is  as  bad  as  to  say  it !  "  she  flared  out. 
"  You  have  lived  all  your  life  here  and  you  are  as  narrow- 
minded  as  a  woman.  My  father  has  his  faults,  but  he  is  a 
prince  among  men  as  you  find  them  out  in  the  world.  I'm 
proud  to  be  known  as  his  daughter  anywhere — even  in  this 
saintly  town,"  she  said  scornfully. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  105 

Fred's  face  grew  stern  but  his  voice  was  quiet  as  he  replied, 
"  It  is  quite  true  I  look  at  some  things  the  way  women  do,  and 
I  was  thankful  that,  although  with  no  credit  to  myself,  I 
could  offer  you  something  I  prize  more  than  anything  else 
in  the  world.  That  is  a  name  that  for  many  years,  at  least, 
has  been  stainless.  It  was  all  I  had  to  give  you,  and  I  am 
sorry  if  you  think  I  overrate  it." 

For  a  moment  the  vehemence  of  Beatrice's  feelings  pre 
vented  her  from  speaking.  Fred  was  shocked  at  the  look  she 
gave  him.  A  bewildered  warning  of  danger  ahead  cooled 
his  resentment.  A  feeling  of  compunction  at  having  unin 
tentionally  hurt  her  feelings  softened  his  mood. 

"Your  father  is  a  generous  and  straightforward  man, 
Beatrice,"  he  hastened  to  add.  "  I  respect  his  good  qualities 
and  I  am  very  grateful  for  his  treatment  of  me.  I  hope  we 
may  never  recur  to  this  painful  conversation.  You  and  I 
are  concerned  alone  with  our  own  family  life.  The  dearest 
ambition  I  have  is  to  live  in  perfect  harmony  with  you  in  a 
family  life  in  which  each  shall  keep  self-respect  while  loving 
and  respecting  the  other." 

At  last  Beatrice's  conflicting  impulses  struggled  into 
words.  "  Just  what  kind  of  a  life  do  you  propose  ?  "  she 
demanded. 

Fred  hesitated,  desiring  to  make  it  as  attractive  as  pos 
sible. 

"  Much  the  kind  of  life  that  we  are  now  living,"  he  replied 
at  length,  "  you  to  have  the  exclusive  possession  of  your  own 
property,  allowing  me,  if  you  see  fit,  to  look  after  it  as  some 
small  contribution  to  the  support  of  my  family;  allowing 
me,  in  addition,  to  do  what  I  can  for  you  out  of  my  own 
salary." 

He  looked  at  her  wistfully.  He  had  not  said  one  word  of 
that  which  had  filled  his  mind  when  he  started  out.  The  con 
versation  had  all  come  back  to  money.  The  best  he  had 
offered  was  to  take  charge  of  her  property  and  live  a  life 
much  like  their  present  one. 

Beatrice  returned  his  regard  for  some  moments  in  silence. 


106  THE     BALLINGTONS 

Then  she  burst  forth  with  mingled  rage,  disappointment, 
and  tenderness.  "  Fred,  you're  an  ass !  You'll  have  to  learn 
to  manage  me  better  than  this.  You'd  better  take  lessons  of 
my  father." 

"  Do  you  wish  you  had  married  a  man  like  your  father  ?  " 
Fred  asked  with  his  heart  in  his  throat,  for  fear  of  a  second 
explosion. 

But  his  wife's  mood  had  changed.  "  No,"  she  said  list 
lessly  ;  "  I  took  you  because  you  were  different  from  all  the 
men  I  ever  knew.  I  didn't  care  whether  your  family  was  good 
or  bad.  We  mustn't  quarrel  any  more.  It  doesn't  lead  to 
anything." 

Fred's  heart  fell  as  the  meaning  of  the  words  grew  upon 
him.  How  futile  had  been  his  effort  to  arrive  at  a  better  under 
standing  !  He  had  succeeded  only  in  making  the  future  look 
less  attractive  to  them  both  than  it  had  looked  before. 

A  moment  later  Beatrice  sank  down  on  his  knee  and  put  a 
hand  on  each  shoulder.  "  Fred,"  she  said  with  an  entire 
change  of  manner,  "Agnes  and  Ferdinand  Ballington  are 
engaged." 

Fred  started.  "Who  told  you  that?"  he  exclaimed  in 
astonishment. 

"  My  own  eyes,"  she  replied  bitterly.  "  To  think  she  would 
pass  over  Donald  and  take  him !  Why,  if  she  didn't  like 
Donald,  why  couldn't  it  have  been  Tom  ?  " 

A  look  of  disappointment  followed  her  last  words.  "  What 
a  lovely  situation  that  would  have  been ! "  she  exclaimed 
regretfully. 

"  What  would  have  been  ?  "  queried  Fred. 

"Oh,  Agnes  refusing  Ferdinand  and  marrying  Tom." 

"  Beatrice,  I  have  wanted  to  know  for  a  long  time  what 
you  and  Tom  Ballington  have  against  Ferdinand,"  Fred  said 
earnestly ;  "  I  have  always  heard  him  very  highly  spoken  of. 
If  he  isn't  the  right  kind  of  man,  Agnes  mustn't  be  allowed 
to  marry  him." 

"  Well,  he  isn't  the  right  kind  of  man,"  exclaimed  Beatrice 
impetuously,  rising  to  her  feet.  "  You  can  put  up  your  bot- 


THE    BALLINGTONS  107 

torn  dollar  on  that.  I  have  hated  him  ever  since  I  was  a  child. 
He  is  a  mean,  hard  man." 

"  If  you  know  anything  definite,  I  think  you  ought  to  tell 
me,"  Fred  objected.  "You  must  have  some  reason  for  hat 
ing  him." 

"Definite!  Reason!  I  knew  you  wouldn't  understand  an 
antipathy.  Well,  here  is  something  you  can  understand,  but 
it  is  really  nothing  to  my  constitutional  hatred.  When  Tom 
and  I  were  going  together,  he  gave  Tom  a  long  lecture  one 
day  warning  him  that  he  would  be  a  fool  to  marry  me.  And 
after  I  became  engaged  to  you,  he  said  that  I  did  it  out  of 
pique  because  Tom  had  followed  his  advice  and  thrown  me 
over." 

A  black  look  passed  across  Fred's  face.  "Did  he  say 
that?" 

Beatrice's  face  lightened  as  she  saw  her  husband's  anger. 
"  Don't  let  it  worry  you  to  that  extent,"  she  said  with 
returning  good  humor.  "  I  am  not  the  only  one  he  has  tried 
to  injure.  He  tried  to  get  the  best  of  Father  on  a  railroad 
deal,  and  he  would  have  done  it  only  one  of  his  tools  at  the  last 
minute  couldn't  bring  himself  to  ruin  my  father.  So  he  went 
back  on  Ferdinand  and  told  the  whole  scheme  in  time  for  us 
to  get  out  without  losing  very  much." 

"Who  was  the  tool?" 

"  The  banker,  Balch.  We  lent  him  some  money  a  couple  of 
years  before  when  he  couldn't  give  security." 

"  Balch  a  tool  in  an  underhand  deal ! "  exclaimed  Fred 
incredulously ;  "  Balch  is  an  honorable  man !  " 

"  Of  course.  I  don't  suppose  there  ever  was  a  word 
exchanged  between  him  and  Ferdinand  on  the  subject.  But 
you  may  be  sure  there  was  a  silent  pressure  brought  to  bear 
on  Balch  that  he  didn't  dare  resist." 

Beatrice  dwelt  upon  this  part  of  Ferdinand's  career  with 
satisfaction,  but  Fred's  brow  did  not  clear.  "  I  am  going  to 
tell  Aunt  Kate.  I  wish  we  had  known  this  was  going  on." 

"  So  do  I,"  assented  Beatrice,  "  but  it  is  too  late  to  change 
Agnes'  opinion  now.  She  is  the  important  one." 


108  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"  No,  she  isn't,"  said  Fred  with  conviction ;  "  Aunt  Kate 
is  the  one." 

"  Well,"  said  Beatrice  impatiently,  "  you  won't  find  out 
anything  against  Ferdinand.  He  is  too  smart.  He  has  an 
excellent  business  reputation.  When  he  does  anything  a  bit 
risky  he  does  it  through  other  people.  His  workmen  get  the 
highest  wages  and  every  municipal  improvement  counts  on 
him  for  a  moderate  subscription.  You  might  as  well  save 
your  breath.  What  good  will  it  do  to  tell  Aunt  Kate  I  don't 
like  him?" 

She  turned  away  from  him  petulantly.  "  I  am  going  to  bed. 
I  wish  you  would  see  if  Saunders  has  locked  up  the  silver. 
Good-night." 

"  Good-night,"  replied  Fred,  looking  after  her  with  pre 
occupied  eyes. 

Saunders  was  turning  off  the  lights. 

For  a  moment  Beatrice  gleamed  down  the  alley  of  over 
arching  palms.  Then  the  lights  went  out.  Fred  thought 
she  had  left  the  conservatory,  when  her  voice  came  to  him 
once  more. 

"Fred!" 

"Yes.    What  is  it?" 

"You'll  let  me  give  you  that  tuxedo,  won't  you?"  The 
voice  was  pleading  under  its  pride. 

Fred  was  reluctant  to  answer,  but  he  told  himself  that  he 
must  be  firm.  Concession  now  would  place  him  in  a  worse 
position  than  his  old  one  had  been. 

"  Let's  not  open  that  discussion  again,  Beatrice,"  he  said 
kindly.  He  thought  she  had  gone  again,  when  her  voice  came 
out  of  the  darkness  a  second  time.  " 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  a  greater  favor  of  you,  Fred.  I'll 
ask  nothing  now  but  the  tuxedo.  It  means  a  good  deal  to  me. 
Don't  be  stubborn." 

Fred's  discomfort  was  passing  into  irritation.  "  See  here, 
Bee,"  he  said,  rising  and  groping  his  way  toward  her.  He 
tried  to  make  his  tone  cheery,  half- jesting.  "  I'd  like  to  have 
an  impartial  witness  as  to  which  of  us  two  is  more  stubborn." 


THE     BALLINGTONS  109 

"You  make  a  big  mistake  to-night,"  her  voice  came  back 
to  him  instantly.  "  You'll  be  sorry  some  day  you  didn't  com 
promise." 

There  was  a  soft  rustle  of  satin  trailing  away.  A  feeling 
of  loneliness  gathered  upon  him  as  he  felt  his  way  into  the 
great  drawing-room.  Huge  pieces  of  carved  furniture 
blocked  his  way.  Rugs  impeded  his  feet.  When  he  reached 
the  doorway  into  the  hall  his  fingers  touched  a  curtain  of 
Gobelin  tapestry.  The  newel-post  of  the  staircase  had  been 
plundered  from  a  moldering  Venetian  palace.  Fred  groaned 
as  he  touched  its  traceries.  What  wealth  was  this  in  which 
he  lived !  He  could  give  her  nothing  that  she  needed.  What 
a  mockery  his  position  was !  He  had  no  authority.  He  was 
a  guest  in  his  own  home.  Would  he  always  be  a  welcome  one? 
Ferdinand  Ballington  had  said  she  married  him  only  for 
pique !  His  heart  was  heavy  with  grief  and  foreboding.  The 
deep  gong  of  the  hall  clock  struck  one.  The  solemn  tone 
vibrated  off  into  the  dark,  and  he  slowly  began  to  mount  the 
stairs. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Agnes,  accompanied  by  Ferdinand,  reached 
home  again  after  Beatrice's  supper-party,  Ferdinand 
left  her  at  the  door. 

Agnes  found  her  mother  sitting  up  for  her,  as  was  her 
custom.  Mrs.  Sidney  was  nodding  as  she  sat  beside  the  sit 
ting-room  table,  and  woke  with  a  start  when  her  daughter 
came  into  the  room. 

Agnes  went  up  and  kissed  her.  "Mother,"  she  said, 
"  Ferdinand  has  asked  me  to  marry  him,  and  I  have  said  I  will. 
He  didn't  come  in  because  it  was  so  late,  but  he  is  going  to 
see  you." 

The  news  had  come  sooner  than  Mrs.  Sidney  expected,  but 
she  took  it  quietly.  She  put  out  her  hand  and  drew  up  to  the 
table  beside  her  a  chair  which  had  been  turned  toward  the 
wall.  Aunt  Mattie's  shoes  were  still  on  the  floor  in  front  of 
it,  where  Mrs.  Sidney  had  removed  them. 

"  Sitx  down,  Agnes,"  said  her  mother.  "  I  want  to  talk  to 
you." 

Agnes  took  the  seat  with  foreboding.  The  solemnity  in 
her  mother's  face  drove  away  the  afterglow  of  Ferdinand's 
presence. 

"  Agnes,"  said  the  elder  woman,  looking  at  the  girl  with 
anxious  care  in  her  steady  gaze,  "  I  saw  when  Ferdinand  first 
came  here  to  see  you  that  he  loved  you,  and  I  asked  God  to 
direct  him  and  to  direct  us.  If  God  had  meant  me  to  root  out 
this  love-making  I  think  He  would  have  made  it  clear  to  me. 
The  Ballingtons  are  good  people.  Your  father  knew  them 
and  respected  them.  Ferdinand  is  known  to  be  an  upright 
and  moral  man.  l£  might  have  been  a  man  we  didn't  know 
about  and  a  stranger  to  your  father.  On  the  other  hand, 
Agnes,  Ferdinand  isn't  a  Christian  man.  '  He  who  is  not 

no 


THE    BALLINGTONS  111 

for  Me  is  against  Me.'  Have  you  thought  of  all  these 
things?" 

"  We  have  talked  of  them  before,  mamma,"  said  Agnes  in  a 
low  voice,  knowing  as  she  said  the  words  that  though  she  had 
talked  of  these  things  with  her  mother,  she  never  had  felt 
them  fully  till  to-night.  Even  now,  it  was  not  anxiety  about 
Ferdinand's  religious  views  that  turned  her  faint  with  appre 
hension,  but  fear  lest  her  mother  should  ask  her  to  give 
him  up. 

In  the  wait  before  her  mother  spoke  again  the  irrevocable- 
ness  of  what  had  happened  came  over  the  girl.  She  felt  her 
self  hardening  against  renunciation,  but  along  with  this  she 
recognized  the  selfishness  of  her  instinct,  and  there  was  a 
shock  in  the  sight  of  herself  as  she  now  knew  herself,  abso 
lutely  fixed  on  holding  to  Ferdinand  Ballington.  She  put  her 
hand  on  the  table  to  support  herself.  For  some  moments 
she  could  not  command  her  voice  to  speak.  She  remembered 
that  six  months  before  she  had  groveled  in  anguish  of  soul, 
beseeching  God  to  vouchsafe  her  some  way  to  expiate  her 
sin — any  way  He  would.  Then  this  thing  had  come,  not 
slowly  so  that  she  could  reason  about  it,  but,  as  it  seemed, 
suddenly,  full-grown.  And  now — was  this  the  way  to 
expiate?  to  give  up — this? 

Agnes  recognized  her  situation.  She  knew,  too,  that  for 
her  there  was  but  one  outcome  to  that  struggle,  that  she  had 
been  bound  over  by  generations  of  stern  and  righteous  fore 
fathers  to  the  more  than  Spartan  law,  "  If  thy  right  hand 
offend  thee,  cut  it  off.  It  is  better  to  enter  into  life  maimed 
than  having  two  hands  to  be  cast  into  hell." 

"Mother,"  she  said,  and  her  face  was  ashen,  "there  is 
something  I  must  say  to  you,  in  spite  of  feeling  that  I  do  not 
mean  a  word  of  it.  I  am  hooting  myself  in  derision  for  say 
ing  it.  Yet  I  will  hold  to  what  I  say.  Tell  me  to  give  up 
Ferdinand  if  it  seems  right  to  you,  and  I — I  promise  you,  on 
the  memory  of  my  father,  I  never  will  marry  him.  I  never 
voluntarily  will  see  him  again.  I  will — give  him — up." 

She  dropped  into  her  chair  again,  her  head  sank  upon  her 


112  THE    BALLINGTONS 

clasped  arms  on  the  table,  and  shook  with  the  convulsion  that 
followed  the  agony  of  soul. 

Mrs.  Sidney  sat  still  and  waited  until  the  spasm  had  spent 
itself,  but  to  herself  she  kept  repeating  fervently,  "  O  God ! 
I  thank  Thee." 

Then  she  leaned  over  and  laid  her  hand,  which  still  had  a 
thimble  upon  one  finger,  on  her  daughter's  arm.  "  No, 
Agnes,  I  don't  ask  that  of  you.  If  I  had  been  going  to  ask 
that  I  should  have  stopped  Ferdinand's  coming  here  before 
this.  I  have  been  sore  troubled  all  these  weeks.  If  it  had 
been  Donald,  the  way  would  have  been  clear.  But  God's  ways 
are  not  our  ways.  I  have  talked  to  Ferdinand  when  we  have 
been  alone.  It  may  be  that  God  is  using  this  way  to  touch 
Ferdinand's  heart.  Have  you  ever  asked  him  to  come  out  and 
make  a  stand  for  Christ?  " 

"  No." 

It  had,  indeed,  often  occurred  to  Agnes  to  speak  to  Ferdi 
nand  upon  this  subject,  but  every  time  she  had  come  near 
to  doing  so  an  uncontrollable  reluctance  had  taken  posses 
sion  of  her.  She  never  had  doubted  that  in  time  he  would  take 
this  all-important  step.  All  the  good  people  she  had  known 
sooner  or  later  professed  religion,  and  she  had  consoled  her 
self  for  her  hesitation  by  thinking  that  after  marriage  con 
versations  which  now  seemed  difficult  would  shape  themselves 
naturally  and  easily.  She  would  have  marveled,  indeed,  had 
anyone  told  her  that  men  and  women  often  live  their  lives 
together  in  the  closest  of  relationships,  and  find  it  easier  to 
confess  an  ideal,  a  yearning  of  the  soul,  to  a  passing  stranger 
than  to  that  other  who  has  learned  intimately  the  humdrum 
current  of  every-day  companionship.  During  all  these  weeks 
wherein  she  was  thrilling  with  the  exquisite  reticence  that 
surrounds  young  love,  it  would  have  been  hard  for  her  to 
believe  that  there  comes  a  time  between  wife  and  husband 
when  a  second  tragic  reticence  exists  concerning  the  early 
confessions  of  heart  and  soul  they  once  exchanged;  a  reti 
cence  which  covers  on  the  part  of  each  in  finer  natures  the 
pitiful  acknowledgment  of  unattained  ideas  of  self-re- 


THE     BALLINGTONS  113 

proach,  and  of  mortification,  which  shields  itself  in  silence; 
while  ignobler  natures  expose  themselves  in  jest  and  mutual 
raillery  concerning  their  dreams  of  youth. 

"Will  you  ask  him?  "  continued  Mrs.  Sidney. 

Agnes'  hands  clasped  each  other.  She  drew  a  painful 
breath.  "Yes." 

"  Then,  I  will  leave  it  to  you.  You  can  do,  Agnes,  what 
God  requires  of  you.  You  have  shown  to-night  that  you  can 
pluck  out  your  right  eye  and  cast  it  from  you.  I  am  not 
afraid  to  trust  Stephen  Sidney's  daughter  anywhere  the 
Lord  may  send  her." 

Agnes  felt  a  soul-cheer  that  went  out  from  her  mother's 
gaze.  It  was  as  if  a  veteran  in  a  sublime  warfare  had  fallen 
upon  the  unexpected  heroism  of  a  recruit,  and  had  called 
out,  "  Hail !  brother." 

A  joy  so  great  that  it  was  pain  rushed  over  the  girl.  "  You 
mean,  mother ?"  and  the  color  surged  back  to  her  face. 

She  stopped.  She  was  shocked  once  more  with  the  selfish 
ness  at  the  bottom  of  her  impulse.  It  was  consent  to  the 
marriage  which  she  craved,  not  Ferdinand's  soul.  She 
looked  at  her  mother  helplessly,  saying  nothing,  alarmed  at 
what  she  thought  her  own  hardness  of  heart. 

"We  must  leave  that  in  God's  hands,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney. 
"  *  In  all  thy  ways  acknowledge  Him,  and  He  will  direct  thy 
paths.'  Good-night,  Agnes.  God  bless  you,  dear  child.  I 
trust  you." 

The  tears  flowed  down  both  faces  as  mother  and  daughter 
kissed  each  other.  Agnes  took  her  candle  and  went  to  her 
own  room.  Her  load  was  immeasurably  lightened  by  her 
mother's  conditional  approbation  of  the  engagement.  She 
again  saw  divine  approval  in  the  joy  that  was  hers.  Yet  in 
spite  of  her  returning  faith  that  the  happiness  in  store  for 
her  was  a  promised  land,  her  direct  heritage  from  God,  the 
signal  in  the  distance  was  no  longer  a  pillar  of  fire  illumi 
nating  a  quiet  night  with  supernatural  glory,  but  it  was 
changing  to  a  pillar  of  cloud  brooding  over  a  day-weary 
earth.  There  it  hung  ahead  of  her,  an  ominous  guide  waiting 


114  THE    BALLINGTONS 

on  the  outskirts  of  the  wilderness  whither  we  all  must  go  for 
our  temptation  or  our  years  of  wandering. 

When  Agnes  reached  her  own  room  she  set  the  candle 
down  on  the  floor  by  a  chintz-covered  chest  in  one  corner.  In 
this  chest  were  the  papers  she  found  in  her  father's  desk,  of 
which  he  had  spoken  to  her.  One,  a  sealed  envelope,  had 
borne  the  direction,  "  For  my  daughter  Agnes  to  read  when 
she  is  thinking  of  marrying."  This  package  had  consumed 
her  with  interest  for  months,  but  she  never  had  felt  justified 
in  opening  it  until  now. 

She  found  the  envelope  and  had  untied  the  string  which 
her  father's  fingers  had  fastened,  when  she  heard  her  mother 
speaking  to  her  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  She  arose  and 
went  into  the  hall  to  answer. 

"  Don't  sit  up  reading  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney.  "  We 
shall  both  have  a  hard  day's  work  to-morrow.  Go  right  to 
bed,  and  try  to  go  to  sleep." 

Agnes  acquiesced.  There  was  a  kind  of  peace  in  obeying 
her  mother  in  the  smallest  detail.  She  put  aside  the  letter 
which  now  seemed  of  such  absorbing  interest  to  her,  and  went 
to  bed. 

But  not  to  sleep!  Ferdinand  had  come  and  gone.  His 
presence  haunted  the  room,  his  voice  was  in  her  ears,  his  face 
met  her  in  the  dark  wherever  she  looked.  No  more  renuncia 
tion  to-night!  Let  it  come  in  the  future — years  long! — but 
now  let  her  give  up  her  thoughts  to  all  that  could  make 
absence  and  heart-hunger  endurable!  She  had  lived  much 
since  that  morning.  It  was  sweet  to  think  of  him.  He  was 
thinking,  too,  of  her,  and  this  thought  was  so  lovely  that  she 
was  almost  in  tears  at  the  certainty  of  it.  After  it  all  she 
was  not  satisfied,  no,  not  to-night.  What  she  wanted  was 
no  brief  moment  stolen  from  a  jostling  crowd,  but  a  long 
communion  in  quiet  like  the  night  about  her.  Then,  perhaps, 
she  might  tell  him  all  that  consumed  her;  then  perhaps  he 
might  read  her  soul,  and  she  might  feel  that  he  opened  the 
secret  chamber  of  his  and  took  her  in.  The  foundations  of 
the  great  deep  had  been  broken  up.  She  was  tossed  from 


THE     BALLINGTONS  115 

billow  to  billow,  and  she  longed  for  the  heart  that  could 
understand  as  the  storm-beaten  sailor  longs  for  the  quiet 
harbor.  She  thought  of  their  union  as  no  longer  if — if,  but 
when — when!  Hour  by  hour  she  lay  unvisited  by  sleep,  her 
wide  eyes  gazing  on  the  visions  that  allure  in  the  delirium  of 
that  fierce,  sweet  fever. 

As  she  sank  at  last  into  slumber  that  shadowy  world  that 
had  wavered  before  her  waking  eyes  came  nearer  in  vaguely 
remembered  harmonies.  The  last  thing  she  realized  before 
passing  into  dreamlessness  was  a  chorus  of  women's  voices 
singing  through  the  night  out  of  distance.  To  her  it  was  only 
an  echo  from  the  buoyant  college  years  that  formed  so  large 
a  part  of  her  memories.  Tannhauser  was  but  a  name  to  her ; 
the  Venus-music  was  a  girl's  part-song  led  by  a  German  music 
teacher.  Yet  to-night  as  it  eddied  around  her  it  filled  her 
darkening  senses  with  uncontrollable  longing,  and  she  was 
borne  out  to  oblivion  on  its  tumultuous  tide. 

Naht  euch  dem  Lande 
Naht  euch  dem  Strande, 
Wo  in  den  Armen 
Gliihender  Liebe, 
Selig  erwarmen, 
Still'  cure  Triebe. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Agnes  asked  Ferdinand  full-heartedly,  upon  their 
return  to  her  house,  to  come  in  with  her  and  tell  her 
mother  of  their  love,  he  had  with  some  difficulty  resisted.  It 
was  a  new  and  sweet  indulgence  to  him  to  give  up  his  will, 
for  the  time  being,  in  response  to  a  woman's  influence,  and 
only  his  long  and  habitual  regard  to  policy  saved  him  from 
presenting  himself  to  Mrs.  Sidney  in  his  relaxed  condition. 

Upon  leaving  Agnes  he  did  not  go  to  the  hotel  immedi 
ately,  but  dismissed  his  carriage  and  walked  for  an  hour  or 
two  through  the  still,  wet  streets  of  Kent,  allowing  himself 
to  feel  to  the  full  the  poignance  of  the  emotions  which  pos 
sessed  him.  He  did  not  think,  he  only  felt,  abandoning  him 
self  to  passion  in  order  to  get  all  there  was  out  of  it.  Again 
and  again  he  called  up  to  his  mind  two  pictures  of  Agnes: 
the  first,  as  she  came  down  the  steps  of  her  mother's  house 
to  the  carriage,  her  hair  wind-blown  across  her  eyes  as  she 
met  his  look;  the  second,  as  she  met  him  again  with  her 
orchids  gone,  in  the  upper  corridor  at  Fred  Sidney's.  His 
cheeks  burned  as  he  persistently  held  this  view  of  her  in  his 
memory — pale,  beautiful,  a  star-like  luminousness  in  her 
eyes,  an  unearthly  grace  in  her  motion.  He  knew  that  she 
was  consumed  with  th?  memory  of  what  they  had  experienced 
during  their  ride  together  and  that  the  experience  had 
transformed  her.  He  remembered  how  she  had  stood  a  mo 
ment  breathing  deep,  her  beautiful  neck  and  arms  defined 
by  the  lines  of  her  black  dress,  her  face  and  manner  suf 
fused  with  unconscious  feeling.  He  knew,  and  the  knowl 
edge  thrilled  him,  that  the  flood-gates  of  her  nature  had 
opened,  and  that  all  the  fullness  of  her  vitality  was  pouring 
out  toward  him.  It  angered  him  to  recall  the  memory  of 

116 


THE     BALLINGTONS  117 

Beatrice  which  followed  hard  upon  this,  but  he  was  unable 
to  banish  Fred's  wife  completely  from  his  mind. 

After  a  time  Ferdinand  checked  himself  and  began  to 
notice  the  houses  he  was  passing,  now  and  then  one  standing 
out  from  the  rest  with  some  show  of  town  importance,  others 
thriftily  struggling  to  hold  themselves,  their  yards,  and  their 
barns  to  the  standards  of  local  dignity.  Ferdinand  smiled 
as  he  looked  at  them  and  quickened  his  steps  toward  Agnes' 
home,  which  he  thought  he  should  like  to  pass  on  his  way  to 
the  hotel.  He  felt  a  sense  of  satisfaction  that  he  had  been 
discerning  enough  to  overlook  much  in  Agnes'  circumstances 
which  would  have  deterred  the  ordinary  man  of  his  position 
from  making  her  his  choice,  and  he  relished  the  anticipation 
of  eventually  displaying  his  discovery  when  he  had  relieved 
her  of  her  prejudices,  cultivated  her  mind,  and  given  her 
person  its  proper  setting.  She  was  full  of  health  and  life, 
of  richness  and  roundness.  Her  very  lack  of  development 
attracted  him,  for  it  meant  that  she  had  but  few  false  notions 
to  be  rid  of,  and  then  he  could  freely  train  her  into  the  per 
fect  woman  for  a  man.  She  would  be  an  ornament  and  a 
comfort  to  his  house,  would  stimulate  and  reward  his  efforts, 
and,  more  than  that,  she  could  thrill  him,  at  least  for  a  time, 
and  a  longer  time  than  most  husbands  enjoyed. 

Ferdinand's  cup  of  contentment  continued  to  fill  as  he 
walked  and  thought,  until  at  last  he  paused  before  the  Sidney 
house.  It  was  a  nice  little  house,  he  told  himself,  as  he  looked 
at  it,  rather  pretty  with  its  vine-draped  porch,  old-fashioned 
blinds,  and  little  tucked-up  office  in  one  wing.  He  felt  a 
certain  kinship  with  the  poets  who  have  sung  of  simple  houses 
and  loves  and  hopes.  They  were  not  so  far  astray,  after  all ; 
they  only  did  not  understand  themselves  so  well  as  he  under 
stood.  Ferdinand  did  not  deceive  himself  in  the  least ;  of  that 
he  felt  quite  sure. 

When  at  last  he  was  once  more  indoors  at  the  hotel  he 
put  aside  emotional  and  poetic,  and  therefore  childish,  things, 
and  set  himself  seriously  to  the  manly  business  in  hand,  that 
of  surmounting  the  final  and  critical  obstacle  between  him 


118  THE    BALLINGTONS 

and  the  accomplishment  of  his  purpose.  Before  he  fell  asleep 
that  night  he  had  resolved  how  he  should  approach  Mrs. 
Sidney. 

Ferdinand  called  upon  Mrs.  Sidney  the  next  morning.  As 
he  went  up  the  steps  of  her  home  he  drew  out  his  watch,  and 
seeing  that  it  lacked  but  a  few  minutes  of  noon,  he  appeared 
satisfied.  As  he  expected,  he  found  Mrs.  Sidney  alone  and 
busy.  Agnes  was  at  the  Buchers',  giving  a  lesson  to  little 
Alfred. 

"  Sit  right  down  in  the  parlor  and  wait,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney 
cordially.  "  Agnes  will  be  home  to  dinner  in  half  an  hour 
now.  I'll  just  put  on  another  plate  for  you.  We're  going 
to  have  a  roe  shad.  Old  Peter  Osgood  brought  it  in  this 
morning." 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Ferdinand,  "  but  I  am  in  haste. 
I  have  only  a  few  minutes  in  town.  It  is  you  whom  I  wished 
to  see." 

Mrs.  Sidney  had  stood  waiting  for  his  answer,  and  so 
Ferdinand  had  not  accepted  her  invitation  to  be  seated.  Now, 
however,  they  both  sat  down,  and  each  of  the  two  strong 
faces  settled  at  once  into  seriousness.  To  his  straightfor 
ward  request  for  Agnes'  hand  Mrs.  Sidney  frankly  stated 
the  one  objection  she  had  to  an  engagement. 

"  It  would  be  hard  for  me  to  attend  to  my  duties  while  in 
a  state  of  uncertainty  as  to  my  relations  with  Agnes,"  Ferdi 
nand  said  after  a  pause,  and  she  read  in  his  face  that  what  he 
said  was  true.  "  I  am  not  sure  that  we  are  so  far  apart  as 
you  think  in  regard  to  religion.  In  fact,  I  have  often  thought, 
Mrs.  Sidney,  that  had  our  education  been  similar,  we  should 
have  been  in  entire  accord.  Am  I  to  understand  that  the  only 
hesitation  you  have  in  accepting  me,  is  in  regard  to  my  re 
ligious  views  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Ferdinand,  that's  all,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney,  meeting 
the  young  man's  gaze  with  friendly  eyes. 

Ferdinand  regarded  her  not  unkindly  and  said  respect 
fully,  "  When  we  last  spoke  of  these  matters,  Mrs.  Sidney, 
you  asked  me  to  make  an  effort  to  bring  myself  into  sym- 


THE    BALLINGTONS  119 

pathy  with  the  Christian  religion.  I  may  say  I  have  since 
done  so." 

Mrs.  Sidney  looked  up  quickly,  and  surprise  gave  way  to 
gratitude  and  joy  in  her  expression.  "  God  will  bless  you, 
Ferdinand !  "  she  said  at  length  fervently.  "  '  Knock  and  it 
shall  be  opened  unto  you,  seek  and  ye  shall  find.'  God's 
promises  are  true." 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  am  prepared  to  make  a  profession 
of  faith,"  continued  Ferdinand  carefully,  "  but  I  can  say 
this:  if  you  will  consent  to  this  marriage,  I  promise  you 
now  that  it  shall  be  the  conscientious  effort  of  my  life  to  come 
into  sympathy  with  Agnes  in  all  views,  and  most  especially 
in  those  pertaining  to  religion.  I  have  for  some  years  owned 
a  pew  in  the  Presbyterian  Church  of  Winston,  but  I  have 
rarely  attended  church.  I  will,  however,  do  so  from  now  on 
with  her.  Until  she  and  I  are  entirely  in  sympathy — and  I 
may  say  that  I  have  no  doubt  eventually  we  shall  be — I  will 
not  permit  myself  to  put  the  matter  out  of  mind,  or  to  relax 
my  efforts  in  seeking  this  unison  of  feeling." 

Mrs.  Sidney's  eyes  were  now  overflowing.  Surely  God 
had  answered  her  prayers.  "  I  can  ask  no  more  than  that, 
Ferdinand,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand.  "  I  would  not 
want  you  to  join  the  church  till  your  heart  is  dedicated  to 
the  service  of  the  Lord,  but  if  you  seek  Him,  you  will  find 
Him.  He  has  said  so,  and  His  words  are  true." 

"  I  have  your  consent,  then,  to  the  marriage?  " 

She  thought  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "  You  have  my  con 
sent,  Ferdinand,  and  my  prayers.  She  is  a  good  girl.  She 
was  always  like  Stephen.  He  used  to  wake  her  up  in  the 
night  and  take  her  out  in  the  dining-room  to  play  with  her 
when  she  was  a  little  baby.  When  Helen  was  a  baby  he  was 
away  in  the  war.  Agnes  hasn't  got  any  money,  Ferdinand, 
but  she's  worthy  of  any  man.  She's  been  very  good  to  me 
since  Stephen  died." 

During  the  pause  which  followed  Mrs.  Sidney's  reminis 
cences  Ferdinand's  quiet  bearing  suggested  deference  to 
them. 


120  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Then  he  said,  "  I  should  like  to  marry  her  in  a  month." 

Mrs.  Sidney  awoke  to  the  present.  "  In  a  month ! "  she 
exclaimed  involuntarily. 

He  waited  again  for  her  to  adjust  herself  to  his  wishes, 
then  added,  "  I  should  like  to  take  her  to  Europe,  and  my 
business  will  let  me  off  in  the  summer  better  than  in  the 
winter." 

"  You  want  to  marry  her  in  a  month.    Four  weeks ! " 

Ferdinand  went  on  with  soothing  impassivity.  "  I  have 
traveled  considerably  myself,  but  a  trip  of  this  sort  would 
be  of  inestimable  advantage  to  Agnes.  I  shall,  of  course, 
be  able  to  provide  for  her  abundantly.  It  will  not  be  neces 
sary  for  you  to  give  yourself  any  trouble  about  prepara 
tions." 

"  Agnes  shall  have  everything  a  girl  needs,"  answered 
Mrs.  Sidney  briefly.  "  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that.  A  month 
seems  pretty  soon,  but  Stephen  never  believed  in  long  en 
gagements." 

She  waited.     It  cost  a  struggle  to  say  the  word. 

"  I  should  like  to  engage  our  passage  without  delay,"  con 
tinued  Ferdinand,  a  slight  urgency  coloring  his  voice,  and 
he  rose  and  took  up  his  hat  from  the  floor.  "  We  shall  cross 
on  the  English  line.  It  is  the  safest." 

He  stood  waiting.  Still  Mrs.  Sidney  said  nothing.  Ferdi 
nand  saw  that  her  mind  was  occupied.  She  was  praying, 
although  her  eyes  were  open.  At  last  the  answer  came. 

"  Be  good  to  her,  Ferdinand,"  she  said,  and  she  looked  up 
to  him  with  something  of  beseeching  that  indescribably  sad 
dened  her  face.  "  She  was  the  apple  of  Stephen's  eye." 

"  I  shall  make  it  an  object  of  my  life  to  do  well  by  her," 
he  replied  earnestly. 

He  went  to  the  door  alone,  for  she  remained  where  she  was 
still  silently  praying. 

Ferdinand  waited  an  instant  outside  the  gate.  He  felt 
a  strong  pull  toward  Mr.  Bucher's  house.  "  Self-denial  for 
the  present  is  the  key  of  future  success,"  he  said  grimly,  and 
he  turned  and  walked  to  the  station. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MRS.  SILAS  BALLINGTON  sat  by  her  library  table 
fingering  a  blue-covered  book  with  lettered  edges.  Her 
hair  rose  in  stately  rolls  from  her  forehead,  and  her  face  was 
judicial.  Tom  Ballington  was  sitting  at  the  other  side  of 
the  table.  He  looked  straight  before  him  at  the  floor;  his 
legs  were  stretched  stiffly  in  front  of  him  and  his  hands  were 
shoved  into  the  pockets  of  his  short  morning-coat.  Donald 
stood  in  front  of  the  empty  grate,  one  foot  nervously  press 
ing  and  re-pressing  the  crumpled  corner  of  a  handsome  rug. 
His  face  showed  his  distress,  and  he  looked  uneasily  from  his 
mother  to  his  brother. 

"  Here  it  is,  Donald,"  said  Mrs.  Ballington,  referring  to 
a  page  near  the  front  and  another  near  the  middle  of  the 
volume.  "  Here,  in  the  front,  it  says — the  letters  '  a-b-c,' 
*  n-m-p,' '  x-y-z,'  all  mean  '  slow  payment.'  Now,  over  here  in 
the  B's  I  read  this :  *  Ballington — Thomas  F.,  Clerk  in  Bal 
lington  &  Ballington — Mnfrs. — Car  Springs — x-y-z.'  Now, 
Donald,  doesn't  that  mean  what  I  said,  that  your  brother  has 
been  advertised  as  a  dishonest  man  ?  " 

"  Well,  hardly  that,  mother,"  Donald  answered  slowly. 
"  You  take  this  a  little  too  seriously.  These  trust-books  are 
issued  every  six  months.  I've  never  seen  Tom  advertised  in 
one  before.  You  haven't  been,  have  you,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Damned  if  I  know !  " 

Donald  spoke  again  instantly. 

"  This  doesn't  necessarily  mean  any  disgrace,  mother.  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  who  could  have  reported  Tom,  but  we'll 
see  that " 

"  I  tell  you ! "  exclaimed  Tom,  drawing  up  his  knees  sud 
denly,  "  I  know  who  did  it !  It  was " 

121 


122  THE     BALLINGTONS 

"  Sh !  "  said  Donald,  frowning.  "  You've  no  right  to  say 
that.  Whoever  he  was,  he  shall  be  paid,  mother.  I'm  sorry 
you  should  have  found  the  book." 

"  I'm  very  glad  I  found  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Ballington 
significantly.  "  I  mean  to  see  this  matter  cleared  up.  What 
is  the  distinction  in  these  letters — *  a-b-c,'  'n-m-p,'  *  x-y-z ' 
all  mean  '  slow  payment '  ?  Why  is  the  *  x-y-z '  by  Tom's 
name?  " 

Tom  jumped  up,  and  thrust  his  fists  deeper  into  his 
pockets,  curling  in  the  edges  of  his  jacket.  "  Oh,  '  a-b-c ' 
means  *  slow  payment,'  "  he  said  looking  full  at  his  mother, 
"  and  '  n-m-p  '  means  *  slower  yet,'  and  *  x-y-z  '  means 
'  really,  too  damned  slow,  you  know ! ' : 

"  Donald,"  said  Mrs.  Ballington,  rising,  "  do  you  think 
it's  proper  to  allow  your  brother  to  use  such  language?  You 
are  just  as  irresponsible  as  your  father  was." 

Donald  left  the  grate  to  open  the  door  for  his  mother,  but 
as  she  was  passing  through  he  remarked  with  a  worried  ex 
pression,  "  I  don't  like  Tom's  swearing  any  better  than  you 
do,  mother." 

When  the  door  closed  after  Mrs.  Ballington  he  added  to 
Tom,  "  Since  swearing  is  so  inexpensive,  I  should  think  you 
might  drop  it,  Tom." 

Tom  made  no  reply.  His  gorge  was  rising,  as  it  always 
did  on  the  periodical  occasions  when  he  had  to  ask  Donald's 
help. 

Donald  waited  a  moment,  then  inquired  shortly,  "  How 
much  do  you  owe  him?  " 

Tom  turned  on  his  heel  instantly.     "  Owe  whom?  " 

"  You  know." 

"  So  you  do  think  he  did  it  ?  "  exclaimed  Tom  with  exasper 
ated  triumph. 

"  I  don't  know  who  did  it,"  Donald  answered  cloudily, 
"  but  I  think  he'd  better  be  paid." 

"  Well,"  said  Tom  airily,  "  there's  just  one  thing  hinders 
me  from  paying  my  debts,  Donald." 

"  How  much  do  you  owe  him  ?  "  repeated  Donald,  unmoved 


THE     BALLINGTONS  123 

by  his  brother's  attempt  to  introduce  a  little  cheerful  ease 
into  the  conversation. 

Tom's  dogged  manner  came  back  upon  him.  "  Somewhere 
in  the  neighborhood  of  five  hundred  dollars." 

"  In  the  neighborhood  of?  Well,  what  does  that  mean?  " 
persisted  Donald. 

"  It's  eight  hundred  and  fifteen  without  interest." 

"  And  interest  for  how  long?  " 

"  About  two  years." 

"  Give  it  to  me  in  months."  Donald  had  taken  his  note 
book  and  pencil  from  his  pocket. 

"  Oh — two  years  and  nine  months,"  exclaimed  Tom  vin 
dictively. 

The  elder  brother  jotted  down  the  figures.  Then  he  went 
up  to  the  table,  and  made  out  a  check  to  his  brother's  name. 

"  Now,  Tom,"  he  said  earnestly,  handing  it  to  him,  "  you 
let  me  see  the  receipt  for  this  to-night.  Don't  buy  any  more 
old  jewelry  until  you  have  the  money  to  pay  for  it,  and  let 
this  be  the  last  time  you  go  out  of  the  family  to  borrow. 
Not  that  I  want  to  keep  lending  you  money,"  he  added  on 
second  and  wiser  thought  as  he  left  his  brother. 

"  You're  a  brick,  Don,"  said  Tom  with  the  unction  of 
relief,  and  he  folded  and  pocketed  the  check.  Then  the  spirit 
of  the  repentant  moralist  came  upon  him  and  he  added, 
"  You're  the  wisest  of  us  after  all,  Don.  You  always  keep 
out  of  trouble." 

"  God  knows  I  have  troubles  enough,"  answered  Donald 
as  he  went  out  into  the  hall. 

Tom  stood  by  the  table  for  some  moments  following  his 
mother's  example  in  examining  the  trust-book.  He  let  his 
eyes  run  through  the  two  names  above  his  own. 

"  Ballington,  Donald  S. — firm  of  Ballington"  &  Balling- 
ton — Mnfrs. — Car  Springs.  H.  G." 

"  Ballington,  Ferdinand — firm  Ballington  &  Ballington — 
Mnfrs. — Car  Springs.  G." 

"  H.  G."  muttered  Tom,  referring  to  the  front  page.  "  H. 
Here  it  is — prompt  payment.  G.  G  pays  cash.  Yes,  I 


124  THE     BALLINGTONS 

might  have  known  it.  The  old  spider  would  pay  cash,  of 
course."  He  shut  the  book  together  spitefully,  and  carried 
it  to  his  own  room. 

When  he  again  emerged  he  was  dressed  for  the  street.  In 
the  lower  hall  he  passed  Donald,  who  was  brushing  his  hat. 

"  Is  Ferd  to  be  at  the  office  this  morning  ?  "  Tom  asked  in 
a  virtuously  business-like  tone,  pausing  near  his  brother. 

Donald  continued  to  brush.  "  I  think  not,"  he  replied 
with  a  preoccupied  air.  After  a  pause  he  added,  "  You'll 
probably  find  him  at  the  farm." 

"  Well,  Don,"  said  Tom  benevolently,  "  if  you  brush  that 
hat  any  longer,  you'll  have  a  hole  to  hang  it  up  by,"  and  he 
went  out  the  front  door  whistling. 

Donald  flushed  slightly  and  hung  up  the  brush.  He  had 
been  turning  over  in  his  mind  a  thought  that  had  troubled 
him  for  some  time  and  which  was  forced  home  upon  him  in 
a  new  light  by  Tom's  suspicion  that  it  was  their  cousin 
Ferdinand  who  had  been  the  anonymous  informer  against  a 
member  of  his  own  firm.  He  was  startled  to  see  how  in 
stinctively  he  had  felt  the  necessity  of  Tom's  paying  Ferdi 
nand  first  of  all  his  creditors.  From  Tom's  relations  with 
Ferdinand,  his  mind  leaped  with  growing  anxiety  to  a 
trouble  that  had  lain  in  the  background  of  his  mind 
for  several  weeks.  He  had  observed  the  regularity  of 
Ferdinand's  trips  to  Kent.  Ferdinand  always  had  shown  so 
little  attention  to  women  that  this  new  development  was  all 
the  more  noticeable.  Donald  knew,  too,  that  there  was  no 
doubt  about  Ferdinand's  business  promptitude  in  whatever 
he  did.  This  particular  business  was  peculiarly  harassing 
to  Donald;  for,  aside  from  his  disappointment  in  the  loss  of 
Agnes,  he  found  himself  looking  forward  with  a  foreboding 
to  the  consequences  to  her  of  a  closer  than  business  relation 
with  his  partner. 

Ferdinand  and  he  had  been  boys  together,  and  he  had 
watched  the  growing  apart  of  his  own  ideals  and  methods 
from  those  of  his  cousin.  They  now  had  arrived  at  the  point 
where  they  were  opposed  along  lines  of  religious  thought 


THE    BALLINGTONS  125 

and  in  matters  of  sentiment.  Even  on  questions  of  business 
policy  the  partners  were  not  rarely  uncomfortably  at  vari 
ance,  and  Donald  realized  that  nothing  except  his  own  con 
trol  of  a  large  part  of  the  firm's  money  enabled  him  to  com 
pete  with  Ferdinand's  iron  will.  He  dreaded  a  situation  for 
a  woman  where  Ferdinand's  will  would  meet  with  no  financial 
check.  Ferdinand's  agnosticism,  too,  assumed  even  graver 
proportions  than  was  its  wont.  So  did  his  utilitarian  at 
titude  on  questions  of  sentiment.  These  things  always  had 
worried  him,  but  now  he  found  himself  speculating  upon 
other  things  which  he  never  had  allowed  himself  before  to 
think  about.  In  short,  Ferdinand's  character  had  been 
assuming  in  Donald's  mind  a  vital  significance  as  it  ap 
proached  Agnes  Sidney.  This  anxiety  was  now  overshadow 
ing  his  brotherly  worry  about  Tom. 

Meantime  Tom  went  whistling  on  his  way  to  the  farm, 
but  as  he  neared  it  his  whistling  dwindled  and  died  away. 
His  relief  at  being  able  to  pay  his  cousin  began  to  be  counter 
acted  by  several  chronic  grudges.  Added  to  these,  he  natu 
rally  thought  of  a  new  one.  He,  too,  had  noticed  Ferdinand's 
trips  to  Kent,  he  remembered  the  advent  of  Ferdinand  and 
Agnes  together  at  Beatrice's  supper  party,  and  he  now 
worked  himself  up  to  quite  a  state  of  disinterested  indigna 
tion.  Donald's  late  generosity  added  fuel  to  his  wrath  at 
Ferdinand's  success  where  Donald  had  failed. 

As  he  drew  near  the  old  Ballington  homestead  where  Ferdi 
nand  lived,  his  feelings  reached  an  inflammable  state.  The 
place  had  been  originally  a  farm,  and,  although  it  had  lost 
most  of  the  signs  of  its  rural  origin,  it  was  still  outside  the 
city  limits.  Tom  remembered  it  as  it  had  been  when  Ferdi 
nand's  father  was  living.  The  brick  wall  that  shut  it  out 
from  the  road  had  been  overgrown  with  a  tangled  luxuriance 
of  woodbine,  wild  grape-vine,  wild  buckwheat,  wild  clematis, 
wild  morning-glory.  Climbing  honeysuckle  and  bitter-sweet 
had  also  dropped  down  and  rooted  in  the  interstices.  Wasps' 
nests  gave  a  pleasing  excitement  to  certain  parts  of  the  wall. 
Humming-birds  whirred  and  drummed  around  it  in  the 


126  THE    BALLINGTONS 

summer.  Tom  remembered  the  rapture  with  which  he 
had  watched  their  green  and  bronze  wings  and  the  fruit 
less  searches  he  had  made  for  their  tiny  nests.  He  remem 
bered  the  big,  poppy-colored  wings  of  the  butterflies  that 
used  to  flutter  aimlessly  over  the  blossoms  and  the  blunder 
ing  humble-bees  stumbling  around  the  stamens  and  pistils, 
so  loaded  with  pollen  that  they  could  hardly  walk,  but  work 
ing  with  an  intensity  that  put  the  sweating  plowman  to 
shame.  In  the  angle  of  the  wall  some  sumachs  had  started, 
and  Tom  remembered  how  his  Uncle  Tom  had  watched  them 
spread  with  the  meditative  remark  that  he  supposed  he  ought 
to  cut  them  out  before  they  took  in  the  whole  door-yard, 
but  that  it  was  written  that  the  wicked  should  flourish  and 
that  he  thought  such  wickedness  was  rather  ornamental.  The 
unkempt  walls,  the  sumach  thicket  and  all  the  wealth  of  insect 
and  bird  life  that  they  harbored  were  like  a  fairyland  in  the 
background  of  Tom's  memory.  Now  as  he  approached  the 
familiar  spot  and  saw  the  bare  bricks  with  a  row  of  iron 
spikes  along  the  top,  a  straight  stone  walk  between  the 
avenue  of  cedars  leading  to  the  house  where  once  an  old  dirt 
path  had  straggled,  carpeted  by  cedar  needles  which  muffled 
the  tread,  and  a  symmetrical,  artificial  seat  where  the  old 
broken  willow  had  swayed  with  the  breeze,  his  anger  burned 
within  him  to  think  of  all  that  sweetness  and  grace  banished 
by  the  hand  of  law  and  order. 

One  sole  apple-tree  remained  to  welcome  him  of  all  the 
original  fruit-trees  which  formerly  had  occupied  the  yard. 
This  was  a  concession  to  the  tears  and  entreaties  of  Miss 
Margaret  Ballington,  Ferdinand's  aunt  and  foster-mother. 
The  tree  had  been  planted  when  she  was  born,  and  she,  like  it, 
was  now  the  only  survivor  of  her  generation.  The  little  old 
lady  felt  real  kinship  with  the  gnarled  but  stately  and  spread 
ing  branches  which  brushed  the  eaves  of  the  house,  sending 
an  odorous  breath  through  the  south-side  windows — the  fra 
grance  of  flowers  in  springtime,  and  the  more  than  Arabian 
Spitzenberg  perfume  in  autumn. 

As  Tom  lifted  the  latch  of  the  freshly-painted  iron  gate 


THE    BALLINGTONS  127 

which  now  interposed  a  barrier  where  formerly  ingress  and 
egress  had  been  hospitably  free  to  all,  he  caught  sight 
through  the  bars  of  his  cousin  Ferdinand  superintending  the 
clipping  of  his  cone-like  cedar  trees,  which  were  being  re- 
trimmed  into  symmetrical  smoothness.  The  ground  was 
covered  with  the  newly-cropped  twigs  and  the  aromatic  odor 
of  resin  filled  the  air.  Tom  stopped,  picked  a  long  grass, 
mechanically  placed  it  between  his  teeth,  passed  inside, 
and  closed  the  gate  with  a  vicious  click  behind  him.  As  he 
approached  Ferdinand  the  latter  looked  up,  but  they  evi 
dently  felt  no  necessity  of  saluting  each  other.  Tom  paused 
by  Ferdinand's  side  and  the  two  looked  on  in  silence  at  the 
gardener. 

At  length  Tom  made  an  indignant  gesture  toward  the 
trees.  "Do  you  like  that?"  he  asked  shortly. 

"  Do  you  mean  the  trimming  ?  "  inquired  Ferdinand  im 
passively. 

"  That's  what  I  mean." 

Ferdinand  eyed  his  companion  gravely  a  moment,  noting 
his  ill-humor.  Then  he  said  quietly,  "  Evidently." 

"  Well,  I  don't !  " 

Ferdinand  walked  away  a  little  and  pointed  out  to  the 
gardener  a  sprig  which  projected  beyond  the  others.  Then, 
returning  to  Tom's  side,  he  asked  without  seeming  interest, 
"  What  is  your  objection  to  it?  " 

"  It's  like  slitting  a  dog's  ears  and  docking  a  horse's  tail 
and  tattooing  the  human  body.  It's  a  mark  of  barbarism. 
This  used  to  be  the  finest  row  of  double  trees  in  the  Atlantic 
States,  and  you  have  made  them  look  like  a  lot  of  funeral 
dunce-caps." 

Ferdinand  did  not  answer. 

Presently  Tom  said  again,  "  Seen  Field's  Trust-Book  this 
month?" 

"  No,"  said  the  other,  a  flash  crossing  his  steady  eyes. 

After  a  moment  Tom  continued  with  rising  color,  "  You 
ought  to  look  at  it.  You'd  find  something  there  that  would 
interest  you,  although  it's  about  only  me." 


128  THE     BALLINGTONS 

"  How  so  ?  "  inquired  Ferdinand. 

"  I  guess  you  know  as  well  as  I  do." 

The  other  made  no  reply. 

"  Nobody  would  ever  take  you  to  be  the  son  of  a  Balling- 
ton,"  Tom  declared,  his  face  still  hotter  as  his  eyes  traveled 
again  from  the  cedars  to  the  row  of  spikes  along  the  wall. 
In  his  mind  these  objects  were  irrelevantly  connected  with 
the  trust-book.  "  No  Ballington  would  ever  do  such  a  dirt- 
mean  trick  as  you've  done  me.  You  lured  me  into  borrowing 
that  money  in  the  first  place.  It  gave  you  a  handle  on  me. 
Well,  it  didn't  work,  did  it!  So  you  took  it  out  of  me.  If 
you  didn't  have  my  Uncle  Tom's  blood  in  you,  I'd  punch  the 
head  off  of  you !  " 

The  subject  of  these  belligerent  remarks  remained  in  his 
place  a  few  seconds,  surveying  his  cousin  coolly.  Then  he 
turned  and  walked  toward  the  house. 

"  Hold  on  there !  "  cried  Tom,  overtaking  him.  "  Here's 
your  money.  I'll  go  inside  and  take  a  receipt !  " 

It  was  the  first  time  for  years  that  Tom  had  allowed  him 
self  the  luxury  of  using  the  kind  of  language  to  Ferdinand 
he  always  wanted  to  use.  The  check  in  his  pocket  gave  him 
the  feeling  of  financial  independence  necessary  to  proper 
self-expression. 

Ferdinand  hesitated.  "  Very  well,"  he  answered,  resuming 
his  walk  at  the  same  gait. 

As  they  went  up  the  steps  to  the  old-fashioned  front  door 
Tom  remarked  with  sardonic  surprise,  "  I  see  you've  left  on 
grandfather's  old  brass  knocker!  What  did  you  do  that  for? 
Nobody  uses  it,  since  you've  got  the  electric  button." 

"  It's  a  valuable  piece  of  brass,"  said  Ferdinand  indiffer 
ently.  "  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  they're  putting 
knockers  on  all  the  new  houses." 

Ferdinand  opened  the  door  as  he  spoke  and  went  in.  They 
passed  down  the  wide  hall  and  turned  into  the  library.  The 
heavy  furniture  was  arranged  symmetrically  along  the  walls, 
as  Tom  always  had  remembered  it.  It  was  the  arrangement 
that  Ferdinand's  mother  had  inaugurated,  and  it  had  stayed 


THE    BALLINGTONS  129 

the  same  during  the  easy-going  years  following  her  death, 
when  Ferdinand's  father  had  been  in  control,  only  because 
it  couldn't  grow  into  change  as  the  yard  had  done. 

Tom  stood  looking  on  darkly  while  Ferdinand  sat  down 
and  made  out  a  receipt. 

He  took  the  paper  when  it  was  completed  and  read  it  osten 
tatiously  before  folding  it  up  and  putting  it  in  his  pocket- 
book.  "  I  wanted  to  be  sure  the  date  was  right,"  he  said. 
"  I  see  you  neglected  to  put  down  the  hour  of  the  day." 

Ferdinand  said  nothing  as  he  passed  around  the  table  on 
his  way  to  the  door. 

"  They've  reported  me  in  Field's  this  month.  You're  at 
the  bottom  of  that !  "  Tom  exploded. 

Ferdinand  paused,  turned  round. 

"  You're  mistaken  about  that,"  he  returned  coldly. 

"  No,  I'm  not  mistaken,  either,  and  you  know  it ! "  said 
Tom,  chafing  under  the  futility  of  words  to  express  his 
feelings. 

Ferdinand's  face  grew  a  shade  paler.  "  I'm  glad  you  are 
reported,"  he  said,  keeping  his  unwinking  gaze  on  the  young 
man's  flushed  face.  "  But  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

He  turned  away  as  he  spoke,  went  into  the  hall  and  up  the 
stairs.  Tom  was  left  alone  with  the  receipt  in  his  pocket. 
Ferdinand  had  the  better  of  him  again  in  manner,  and  he  also 
had  his  money.  Tom  felt  the  loss  of  the  money  more  keenly 
than  he  did  the  loss  of  his  temper.  A  new  exasperation 
rushed  in  upon  him.  Why  had  he  not  asked  Donald  to  give 
him  a  little  more,  while  he  was  about  it?  The  sting  of  poverty 
followed  too  closely  upon  his  late  affluence.  He  ejaculated 
something  under  his  breath,  jammed  his  hat  down  over  his 
eyes,  and  went  out  doors,  taking  care,  however,  to  close  the 
front  door  gently  behind  him.  He  knew  Ferdinand  was 
expecting  it  to  slam. 


CHAPTER   IX 

next  day  after  Tom's  interview  with  Ferdinand 
Donald  was  sitting  in  the  neat  office  of  Ballington  & 
Ballington  trying  to  work.  At  last  he  gave  it  up  with  a 
sigh  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  What  was  the  use  of 
working  when  he  had  something  else  to  do  and  it  was  only  a 
fewminute^  now  before  it  must  be  done?  Over  night  he  had  come 
to  the  decision  that  it  was  his  duty  to  talk  to  Ferdinand  upon 
a  subject  from  which  he  shrank  with  inexpressible  reluctance. 
It  was  upon  the  vital  question  of  the  relations  which  might 
exist  between  his  partner  and  Agnes  Sidney.  To  the  natural 
delicacy  he  would  have  felt  toward  such  an  interference 
under  ordinary  circumstances  there  was  added  the  objection 
that  his  motives  would  probably  be  misconstrued,  thus 
vitiating  any  success  he  might  hope  to  have.  He  feared 
that  it  never  had  dawned  upon  Ferdinand  that  a  girl  brought 
up  as  Agnes  had  been  would  suffer  intensely  in  endeavoring 
to  relate  her  own  standard  of  conduct  to  different  ones  of  her 
husband.  Donald  had  appreciated  a  deepening  and  develop 
ing  in  Agnes  following  upon  her  father's  death.  He  remem 
bered  her  manner  and  the  look  she  gave  him  when  she  refused 
him  finally.  If  he  had  not  seen  that  look  his  duty  would  by 
no  means  have  been  clear  to  him,  but  now  there  seemed  laid 
upon  him  the  moral  responsibility  of  pointing  out  to  Ferdi 
nand  what  it  was  which  he  was  about  to  take  into  charge ;  of 
suggesting  to  him  that  the  inevitable  adjustment  which  must 
be  made  between  two  persons  who  are  to  live  together  must 
be  a  mutual  one. 

Donald  almost  had  worked  himself  up  during  his  night's 
vigil  to  the  point  of  going  to  Kent  and  expounding  his 
cousin's  character  to  Mrs.  Sidney,  but  with  the  first  rays  of 
the  rising  sun  he  realized  the  impracticability  of  such  an  act. 
Moreover,  a  sincere  concern  for  Ferdinand  himself  had  warned 

130 


THE    BALLINGTONS  131 

him  from  interfering  in  a  series  of  events  which  might  lead 
to  his  cousin's  religious  awakening.  To  Donald's  knowledge 
Ferdinand  never  had  come  under  the  influence  of  love,  and 
Donald  often  had  used  this  to  explain  in  the  other  what  he 
did  not  admire. 

He  was  nervously  turning  over  in  his  mind  the  best  way 
of  opening  the  subject  when  he  heard  Ferdinand's  character 
istic  step  approaching  the  door.  With  the  feeling  that  a 
crisis  was  upon  them  he  turned  in  his  chair  as  his  cousin 
entered  the  room. 

As  he  lifted  his  troubled  but  resolute  face  to  greet  Ferdi 
nand  he  met  in  the  other  an  expression  of  justified  self-satis 
faction,  the  look  of  one  who  knows  himself  to  be  a  true 
prophet.  This  look  of  Ferdinand's  checked  the  words  which 
were  already  on  Donald's  lips. 

Ferdinand  walked  over  to  his  desk,  seated  himself,  and  said, 
tilting  his  head  backwards  to  look  at  Donald,  "  Well,  the 
bank's  shut  down !  " 

"  Is  that  so  ?  "  Donald  exclaimed  with  reaction  of  mood. 

"  Yes.  It  came  a  little  earlier  than  I  thought  it  would.  I 
thought  Balch  would  hold  out  another  month.  Well,  we  got 
out  just  in  time,  didn't  we?  My  prophecy  wasn't  far  off." 

Donald  looked  at  the  floor  thoughtfully.  It  was  true 
Ferdinand  had  prophesied  this,  and  he  himself  had  yielded 
unwillingly  to  Ferdinand's  insistence  that  they  should  with 
draw  all  the  firm's  funds  from  the  bank.  He  was  about  to 
acknowledge  frankly  his  cousin's  superior  judgment  when  a 
second  thought  stopped  him. 

Presently  he  spoke,  "  Balch  will  say  that  it  was  our  with 
drawal  that  broke  him." 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  He  expected  to  tide  over  his  difficulty.  Our  move  proba 
bly  caused  the  run." 

There  was  a  pause. 

Then  Donald  continued  with  feeling,  "I  do  think  we 
might  have  helped  him.  The  use  of  a  moderate  sum  very 
likely  would  have  pulled  him  through,  and  it  wouldn't  have 


132  THE     BALLINGTONS 

hurt  us  any.  I'm  sorry  for  Balch.  I  didn't  think  this  really 
was  going  to  happen.  He's  an  honorable  man,  and  I've 
always  thought  he  was  a  good  manager.  You  thought  so, 
too,  two  years  ago,  when  you  put  our  money  into  Balch's 
hands." 

An  unpleasant  expression  crossed  Ferdinand's  face.  "  I 
saw  he  had  a  chance  to  add  twenty-five  per  cent,  to  his  capi 
tal  without  the  slightest  risk.  He  failed  to  do  it  with  his 
eyes  open.  I  saw  he  was  no  business  man  and  made  up  my 
mind  then." 

Donald  did  not  reply.  He  was  thinking  that  the  announce 
ment  of  Balch's  failure  was  especially  ill-timed  as  a  prelude 
to  the  conversation  he  intended  to  have  with  Ferdinand, 
because  it  had  apparently  demonstrated  Ferdinand's  good 
sense.  His  own  dissatisfaction  with  the  methods  employed 
by  this  good  sense  would  count  for  nothing  in  face  of  their 
practical  results. 

"  Is  that  Ferguson's  new  brand  of  cigars  over  there  ? " 
Ferdinand  asked  after  a  moment. 

Donald  glanced  at  the  box  absent-mindedly,  "I  believe 
it  is." 

There  was  another  pause. 

"  They  say  Balch  has  been  running  his  affairs  on  bor 
rowed  capital  at  the  rate  of  nine  thousand  a  year  for  four 
years.  I  suppose  Mott  has  been  behind  him."  Again  Ferdi 
nand's  voice  prevented  Donald's  beginning  on  the  subject 
uppermost  in  his  mind. 

"  That's  bad ! "  Donald  said  with  real  distress  in  his  voice. 
"It  doesn't  seem  like  Balch."  He  added  after  a  moment, 
"What  is  the  talk  in  town?" 

"  Sympathy  for  the  college  mostly.  Isn't  that  just  like  a 
sectarian  institution,  to  put  all  its  eggs  in  one  basket  ?  " 

"  Doesn't  Balch  expect  to  meet  his  creditors  after  a  little?  " 
asked  Donald  with  growing  hopelessness. 

"There's  no  telling,"  replied  Ferdinand  indifferently. 

He  did  not  turn  to  his  work,  and  presently  he  remarked, 
"  I  believe  I'll  try  one  of  those  cigars." 


THE     BALLINGTONS  133 

Donald  passed  him  the  box  and  his  cousin  selected  a  cigar 
carefully  and  lighted  it. 

"  Ferguson  knows  a  good  cigar,"  he  said,  after  puffing  for 
some  moments.  "  Curious  what  poison  most  people  will  draw 
into  their  circulation,  isn't  it?" 

Donald  sat  looking  at  Ferdinand  without  saying  any 
thing. 

Ferdinand  observed  it,  and,  leaning  forward  to  knock  the 
cigar  ash  into  a  silver  tray,  said  with  a  slight  hardening  of 
tone,  "  There  is  something  else  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you 
about." 

An  intuition  that  he  had  lost  his  opportunity  flashed  across 
Donald's  mind.  "What  is  it?"  he  asked  briefly. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  why  I  have  been  going  to  Kent 
lately,"  said  Ferdinand,  still  needlessly  tapping  his  cigar  on 
the  edge  of  the  tray. 

"  Yes." 

"  Agnes  wanted  you  to  know  it  at  once.    We  are  engaged." 

A  wave  of  bitter  rebellion  surged  up  in  Donald's  breast. 
His  emotions  checked  his  utterance;  the  primeval  instinct  of 
jealousy,  the  protective  instinct  toward  Agnes,  and  a  feel 
ing  of  helplessness  in  the  hands  of  fate.  It  took  him  some 
time  to  master  himself. 

Ferdinand  watched  him  not  unkindly,  and  as  soon  as  he 
thought  that  he  could  finish,  he  added,  "  I  am  going  to  marry 
her  in  about  a  month." 

Donald  felt  that  his  mouth  was  closed. 

Ferdinand,  out  of  consideration,  continued  to  bear  the  bur 
den  of  conversation.  "  Yes.  I  want  to  get  her  away  from 
there.  She  has  to  work  hard,  and  in  addition  her  mother  is 
very  exacting." 

As  Donald's  expression  did  not  change,  Ferdinand  ended 
more  slowly,  "  I  think  you  ought  not  to  feel  that  I  have  taken 
any  advantage  of  you.  I  did  not  approach  her  until  your 
attentions  to  her  had  ceased." 

"I  have  nothing  to  complain  of  in  that  respect,"  said 
Donald  with  dignity ;  "  she  never  would  have  married  me." 


134  THE     BALLINGTONS 

After  a  pause  Ferdinand  began  speaking  again.  "  I  am 
expecting  to  take  her  to  Europe  for  three  or  four  months," 
he  said.  "I  think  I  can  be  absent  just  now  without  causing 
much  inconvenience." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dqpald  slowly,  "  business  is  dull  this  time  of 
year." 

"  I  wouldn't  care  to  go  again  myself,"  Ferdinand  went  on. 
"  I  saw  all  I  wanted  to  see  when  I  went  over  two  years  ago, 
but  it  will  mean  a  good  deal  for  Agnes.  It  will  broaden  her 
out  amazingly.  She  needs  culture." 

Donald  was  stung  at  this  unequivocal  language  concerning 
the  girl  they  both  loved.  "  It's  rather  strange  you  should 
have  been  attracted  by  so  crude  a  girl,"  he  said  bitterly. 

Ferdinand  regarded  him  seriously,  and  answered  after  a 
pause,  "  No.  Agnes  is  a  wholesome  girl  and  she  has  charm. 
You  can  see  from  her  mother  that  her  health  is  likely  to  last. 
These  cultured  town  girls  won't  be  able  to  compete  with 
Agnes  in  a  few  years."  After  a  moment  he  added  with  a 
shrewd  smile,  "  A  man  ought  not  to  pick  out  his  wife  for  five 
years  when  the  chances  are  he'll  live  with  her  forty.  Agnes 
may  start  handicapped,  but  she'll  win  out  in  the  long  run. 
She's  sound."  His  satisfaction  deepened  upon  reflection. 
"  Mrs.  Sidney  is  a  hale  old  lady  still,  a  good  deal  better  pre 
served  than  most  women  fifteen  years  her  junior.  Agnes 
comes  of  good  sturdy  stock.  This  little  New  York  girl  Staf 
ford  has  married  will  be  about  as  animated  as  a  piece  of  chalk 
by  the  time  she's  thirty.  By  that  time  Stafford  will  be  bank 
rupt.  Why  can't  people  use  some  business  sense  in  getting 
married  ?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

Then  Donald  turned  to  his  companion  with  a  gravity  which 
at  once  caught  the  other's  attention.  "  I  believe  you  never 
met  Agnes'  father,  Dr.  Sidney  ?  " 

Both  of  them  were  conscious  that  Donald's  voice  had  a 
tenseness  unusual  to  it. 

Ferdinand  fell  on  guard.  "  No,  I  never  did.  He  treated 
my  father  at  one  time.  I  never  happened  to  meet  him." 


THE    BALLINGTONS  135 

Donald  leaned  forward.  He  realized  that  he  had  let  slip 
the  chance  of  influencing  events  before  they  had  come  to 
pass.  He  had  tried  to  speak  several  times,  but  circumstances 
always  had  thwarted  him.  It  would  have  been  worse  than 
useless  to  open  the  subject  when  Ferdinand  was  in  certain 
moods,  and  on  two  occasions,  when  his  cousin  seemed  especially 
open  to  appeal,  vexatious  interruptions  had  come  between 
them.  Donald  had  tormented  himself,  too,  with  self -accusa 
tions  of  procrastination  and  cowardice.  He  had  rebuked  him 
self  for  not  making  opportunity,  for  his  ineptitude  in  deal 
ing  with  hindrances  as  they  arose.  The  burden  of  Agnes' 
future  had  come  to  rest  heavier  and  heavier  upon  him  until 
he  almost  morbidly  regarded  himself  as  responsible  for  her 
happiness.  His  decision  to  speak  now  was  the  result  of  a 
reckless  impulse  to  ease  his  conscience  at  any  cost.  It  took 
this  form  toward  Ferdinand.  It  was  to  take  a  more  delib 
erate  form  toward  Agnes. 

"There's  something  I  want  to  say  to  you,  Ferdinand, 
about  Agnes'  relations  v,ith  her  father.  As  you  never  met 
him,  it's  impossible  that  you  should  know  how  much  he  stands 
for  in  Agnes'  life,  how  largely  he  has  formed  her  character. 
Her  ideas  of  conscience  and  duty  are  bound  up  with  her 
memory  of  him,  and  there  is  therefore  something  peculiarly 
sacred  and  sensitive  about  them.  Of  course  you  have  found 
out  that  the  way  she  and  her  mother  look  at  things  is  opposite 
to  your  own  in  many  respects."  Donald  paused  and  grew  a 
shade  paler  as  he  nerved  himself  for  the  next  sentence.  "I 
have  always  known  you,  Ferdinand,  and,  much  as  I  admire 
you  in  many  ways,  I  think  you  have  it  in  you  to  make  a  woman 
like  Agnes  as  miserable  as  it  is  possible  for  her  to  be,  unless 
you  treat  her  with  more  sympathy  than  I  ever  have  observed 
in  you." 

Ferdinand  sat  still,  looking  through  the  window. 

Donald  continued  deliberately,  "  You  are  in  love  with 
Agnes  now,  and  I  believe  that  that  has  led  you  to  disguise 
from  her  and  her  mother  some  of  your  most  cherished 
theories.  Otherwise  I  don't  believe  that  Mrs.  Sidney  or  even 


136  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Agnes  herself  would  consent  to  this  betrothal.  It  would 
make  me  very  happy,"  Donald  continued  in  a  gentler  tone, 
"  to  believe  that  they  see  deeper  into  you  and  know  you  bet 
ter  than  I  do ;  and  that  is,  of  course,  quite  possible." 

He  paused,  but  Ferdinand  still  looked  through  the  window. 

Presently  Donald  drew  a  long  breath  as  he  resumed,  "  Well, 
Ferdinand,  I've  just  one  excuse  for  saying  this  to-day.  It 
ought  to  have  been  said  before.  God  knows  I've  tried  enough 
times.  I  dread  the  effect  upon  Agnes  of  awaking  from  an 
illusion.  If  you  have  allowed  one  to  arise,"  he  said  slowly 
and  significantly,  "let  it  continue."  Then,  shocked  at.  his 
own  cynicism,  he  added  hurriedly,  "Live  up  always  to  what 
you  feel  now." 

Ferdinand  turned  his  face  long  enough  to  give  Donald  a 
glance. 

Donald's  heart  beat  heavily. 

Ferdinand  made  as  though  he  were  going  to  reply,  then  he 
turned  resolutely  to  the  window  again.  Had  he  spoken,  what 
he  would  have  said  is  this :  "  In  other  words — that  is,  in  plain 
words — you  are  a  jealous  man  using  Christian  terms." 

The  sound  of  a  carriage  driving  up  outside  arrested  Ferdi 
nand's  attention.  He  walked  over  to  the  window,  then  turned 
back  to  Donald.  "  Here  comes  your  mother,"  he  said,  and 
he  tossed  his  cigar  into  the  ash-tray. 

The  door  was  opened  by  Mrs.  Ballington  in  great  excite 
ment.  Her  state  of  mind  was  further  evidenced  by  her  attire, 
of  which  she  was  ordinarily  scrupulous.  She  had  thrown  on 
hurriedly  an  amorphous  cape  over  an  elaborate  morning- 
dress. 

"  Did  you  know  the  bank  has  failed  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  flurry 
of  her  son. 

"  Ferdinand  has  just  told  me  so,"  answered  Donald. 

"  What  about  the  firm  ?  "  she  continued  breathlessly. 

"  We  withdrew  our  funds  Friday." 

"  So  that's  true !  "  She  sank  into  a  chair  with  an  expres 
sion  of  relief.  Then  she  sat  up  again,  demanding,  "  Why  was 
this  kept  from  me?  " 


THE    BALLINGTONS  137 

"  It  wasn't  kept  from  you,  mother,"  said  Donald  with  an 
unhappy  gesture.  "  I  intended  to  tell  you,  but  I've  had  a 
good  many  things  on  my  mind.  Besides,  we  had  no  idea  this 
would  come  so  soon." 

"  It  looks  very  much  as  though  you  did  know  it.  They  are 
saying  all  over  town  that  Balch  made  the  firm  a  preferred 
creditor.  There's  a  crowd  around  the  bank  now.  When  I 
drove  by  some  of  the  men  called  out  at  me." 

Donald  flushed  and  reached  hesitatingly  for  his  hat.  "  I 
never  would  allow  the  firm  to  benefit  at  the  expense  of  the  sav 
ings  of  workingmen." 

"  I  wouldn't  go  over  to  the  bank  now,"  Ferdinand  remarked 
with  a  slight  smile.  "  Some  bright  person  in  the  crowd  will  be 
sure  to  recollect,  if  he  is  given  time,  that  a  bank  can't  make 
preferred  creditors." 

Donald  still  hesitated. 

"  It's  always  rash  to  face  a  mob,"  Ferdinand  continued. 
He  flicked  some  cigar  ashes  from  his  light  trousers. 

Donald  sat  down  again. 

"  Of  course  disagreeable  things  will  be  said  about  the  firm," 
finished  Ferdinand.  "  I  don't  see  that  that  need  worry  us." 

"  How  did  you  know  Balch  was  going  under  ?  "  asked 
Donald. 

Ferdinand  met  his  cousin's  gaze  easily.  "  By  having  eyes 
to  see,  and  seeing.  I  believe  I  keep  Scripture  better  than 
you,  Donald." 

"  He  didn't  mention  anything  of  the  kind  to  you,  did  he?  " 
Donald  persisted. 

"  No." 

"  I  was  intending  to  call  at  the  bank  to  draw  some  money 
on  McMaster's  check,"  said  Mrs.  Ballington.  "  Can  you  cash 
it,  Donald?" 

"For  how  much?" 

"  Two  hundred." 

"  I  can,"  volunteered  Ferdinand,  as  Donald  hesitated.  He 
went  into  an  inner  room  where  the  safe  was  kept  and  soon 
returned  with  the  money. 


138  THE    BALLINGTONS 

During  his  short  absence  Donald  had  striven  to  force  him 
self  into  communicating  the  other  piece  of  news  to  his  mother. 
It  was  not  till  his  cousin's  return,  however,  that  he  succeeded. 
"  Ferdinand  has  just  told  me,  mother,"  he  said  stiffly,  "  that 
Agnes  Sidney  and  he  are  engaged." 

"Indeed!"  said  Mrs.  Ballington  with  a  cool  stare  at  her 
nephew.  He  returned  her  gaze  civilly.  Unwilling  as  she 
had  been  that  Donald  should  marry  Agnes,  she  was  nettled  at 
its  being  prevented  by  this  means. 

Just  as  she  was  leaving  the  office  she  turned  back.  "  Does 
Margaret  know  ?  "  she  asked  significantly. 

"  Donald  is  the  first  one  I  have  told,"  returned  Ferdinand, 
and  he  stepped  forward  to  open  the  door  for  her. 

After  Ferdinand  closed  the  door  behind  her  the  two  men 
without  any  further  conversation  seated  themselves  at  their 
desks  and  began  to  write.  The  minds  of  both,  however,  were 
busy  with  other  thoughts  than  business.  Ferdinand,  with  the 
triumphant  satisfaction  of  the  successful  lover,  was  again 
dwelling  upon  that  first  look  of  passion  and  self-surrender 
with  which  Agnes  had  met  him  in  the  corridor  at  Fred  Sid 
ney's  house.  Donald,  on  the  other  hand,  continued  to  brood 
upon  the  look  of  awakened  conscience  and  self-abnegation  he 
had  caught  in  her  face  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her  after  her 
father's  death.  As  the  two  wrote  on  with  automaton-like 
regularity  nothing  was  heard  in  the  office  but  the  ticking 
of  the  clock  and  the  scratching  of  pens. 

Meantime  Mrs.  Ballington  went  out  to  the  carriage,  where 
she  found  Tom  talking  familiarly  with  the  coachman.  He 
included  her  genially  in  the  discussion  as  he  stepped  forward 
to  help  her  into  the  carriage. 

"  Well,  mother,  John  tells  me  the  bank  is  bust !  " 

Mrs.  Ballington  made  room  upon  the  seat  and  beckoned 
him  into  the  carriage.  After  an  instant's  hesitation  Tom 
entered  and  his  mother  directed  the  coachman  to  drive  around 
the  block. 

After  they  had  started,  she  said  in  a  low  but  impressive 
voice,  "  Tom,  Ferdinand  and  Agnes  Sidney  are  engaged." 


THE     BALLINGTONS  139 

Tom  sat  silent  while  his  face  turned  a  dark  crimson. 

"  Well,  I  wish  her  more  j  oy  than  she's  likely  to  get,"  he 
said  at  length.  "  A  girl  that  will  turn  down  Donald  for 
Ferdinand — deserves  Ferdinand."  The  last  words  came  out 
with  a  vindictive  click.  A  moment  later  he  added  more 
calmly,  "  My  sympathies  go  to  Aunt  Margaret.  You  mark 
my  word,  she'll  be  put  out  somewhere  to  board." 

Mrs.  Ballington  considered.  This  was  a  new  idea.  The 
position  of  Ferdinand's  aunt  and  foster-mother  had  seemed 
a  natural  and  permanent  one  in  the  family. 

"  Tom,"  she  said  finally,  "  Ferdinand  never  would  dare 
to  turn  Margaret  out  of  doors.  Why,  she  was  born  in  that 
house ! " 

"  What  if  she  was  born  there  ?  "  replied  her  son  moodily. 
"Ferdinand  owns  the  house.  The  idea  of  his  owning  that 
house!  It  might  as  well  be  a  car-barn  for  all  the  sentiment 
he  has  toward  it.  Here  are  Aunt  Margaret  and  I,  who 
really  love  it,  and  we  have  to  see  the  vines  dug  up  and  the 
trees  dug  out  and  the  walk  weeded  and  stoned  and  the  fence 
spiked  as  though  it  were  a  prison  court-yard.  I  declare  it 
just  drives  me  to  the  devil  to  think  of  that!  And  he  knows 
it !  He  knows  it !  He  only  keeps  the  house  because  Donald 
tried  to  buy  it,  and  so  he  can  clip  those  evergreens.  When 
I  went  there  yesterday  and  walked  up  the  avenue  to  the  front 
door,  it  was  exactly  as  though  I  were  going  through  the 
graveyard  up  to  the  family  vault.  I  wonder  if  I  ever  shall 
have  the  privilege  of  attending  Ferd's  funeral  there?  "  he 
ended,  in  a  kind  of  black  reverie. 

They  finished  the  circuit  of  the  block  in  silence,  and  drew 
up  again  in  front  of  the  office  door. 

"  Well,"  said  Tom  philosophically,  as  he  left  the  carriage, 
"  it  must  be  a  relief  to  you,  mother,  to  get  Agnes  Sidney 
married.  Don's  safe  now,  at  last." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  driver  and  added,  "  Drive  home  by 
Linton  Avenue,  John.  Don't  go  past  the  bank." 

Mrs.  Ballington  settled  back  on  her  cushions,  raised  her 
lorgnette  to  her  near-sighted  eyes,  and  passed  in  state  up 


140  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Linton  Avenue.  But  the  state  was  only  outward.  Within 
she  was  upset.  It  was  even  more  humiliating  to  have  Donald 
refused  by  a  country  doctor's  daughter  than  to  have  him 
marry  one;  it  was  especially  bitter  to  her  to  reflect  that 
Agnes  had  achieved  a  double  victory.  She  not  only  had  re 
fused  Donald,  but  by  marrying  Ferdinand  she  would  still 
attain  a  social  prominence  equaling  that  of  Mrs.  Ballington 
herself. 

As  they  reached  a  wide  curve  of  the  road  which  led  toward 
the  eastern  suburbs,  a  thought  came  to  her.  "  John,"  she 
said,  "  you  may  drive  me  out  to  the  farm." 

The  man  turned  obediently  and  presently  drew  up  in  front 
of  the  old  Ballington  residence. 

"  I  should  think,  with  all  the  other  improvements,"  Mrs. 
Ballington  muttered  as  she  descended  from  the  carriage, 
"  that  Ferdinand  would  have  a  drive-way  put  in  here." 

She  went  up  the  walk  to  the  front  door,  noticing  with  un 
willing  approval  the  alterations  in  the  place  which  had  so 
infuriated  Tom.  She  mounted  the  front  steps  clumsily,  im 
peded  by  her  morning-gown.  The  door  stood  ajar.  She 
stood  a  moment  to  breathe  after  her  hasty  walk  from  the 
carriage,  then  pushed  open  the  door  and  entered  uncere 
moniously. 

"  Margaret ! "  she  called  in  the  voice  of  one  who  bringeth 
tidings. 

An  inner  door  was  opened  hastily  in  answer  to  the  sum 
mons  and  Miss  Margaret  Ballington,  with  a  startled  look  on 
her  face,  stepped  out  into  the  hall.  "  Is  that  you,  Sarah  ? 
Why,  what's  the  matter?  " 

Of  the  two  women  a  stranger  easily  would  have  taken  Miss 
Margaret  to  be  the  mother  of  Donald  Ballington,  had  it  not 
been  for  an  unmistakable  air  of  withered  maidenhood  about 
her.  Her  face  had  the  same  fair  symmetry  and  her  eyes 
and  hair  were  like  his  grown  old.  She  was  a  fragile  creature, 
as  transparent  as  a  frosted  flower,  and  withal  she  had  some 
thing  of  the  flower's  unconscious  innocence. 

"  Is  there  anybody  around  here?  "  asked  Mrs.  Ballington. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  141 

"No.  Why?  What  is  it?"  said  Miss  Ballington  in  a 
flutter  of  nervous  surprise. 

"  Margaret  Ballington,  will  you  promise  not  to  let  anyone 
know  I've  told  you,  if  I  tell  you  something  now?  " 

The  widow  spoke  with  such  solemnity  that  Miss  Mar 
garet's  nervousness  became  trepidation.  "  Yes.  I  won't 
speak  of  it.  What  is  it?  Sit  down  somewhere.  Let's  go  in 
here."  . 

She  turned  and  led  the  way  into  the  green  parlor.  It  was 
the  room  in  which  she  had  been  born. 

"  What  is  it?  "  she  repeated  breathlessly,  sitting  down  on 
a  green  lounge  with  a  rustle  of  her  lawn  skirts. 

Simultaneously  her  visitor  seated  herself  upon  the  edge 
of  a  large  rep  chair,  and  punctuated  the  ensuing  conversa 
tion  with  dabs  and  fluent  waves  of  her  lorgnette. 

"  You'll  probably  hear  it  from  Ferdinand  to-night.  You 
know  that  girl  I've  been  afraid  Donald  was  going  to  marry? 
Well,  Ferdinand  is  going  to  marry  her." 

Miss  Margaret  leaned  forward  with  a  horror-stricken 
face  and  began  to  tremble.  "  Ferdinand  ?  Ferdinand  ?  "  she 
said  confusedly.  "  Is  Ferdinand  going  to  marry?  How  do 
you  know  he  is?  He'd  never  marry  a  variety  singer  such  as 
you  said  she  was.  No,  Ferdinand  wouldn't.  He  doesn't  like 
music." 

The  satisfaction  which  Mrs.  Ballington  felt  in  the  success 
of  her  communication  acted  as  a  healing  balm.  She  settled 
herself  back  more  comfortably  in  her  chair  to  enjoy  Miss 
Margaret's  dismay.  Her  lorgnette  made  an  almost  benevo 
lent  circuit  through  the  air  as  she  replied,  "  Yes,  he  is,  Mar 
garet.  He  is.  He's  told  me  so  himself.  I  thought  of  course 
he  had  told  you  first.  I  came  out  at  once  to  find  out  what 
you  are  going  to  do  about  it." 

Little  Miss  Ballington  sat  as  one  stunned.  She  had 
looked  forward  vaguely  to  something  of  this  kind,  but  it 
had  come  without  warning.  She  was  more  hurt  by  the  fact 
that  Ferdinand  had  not  given  her  his  confidence  than  she  was 
by  the  engagement,  dreadful  as  that  seemed  to  her. 


142  THE    BALLINGTONS 

After  a  moment  she  spoke  with  trembling  lips,  with  a 
pathetic  effort  at  dignity.  "  There  is  but  one  thing  for  me 
to  do,  Sarah.  That  is  to  receive  Ferdinand's  wife."  Then 
she  broke  off  with  a  look  of  indecision  and  entreaty.  "  What 
should  you  think  I  ought  to  do,  Sarah?  Perhaps  the  girl 
isn't  all  bad.  I've  always  said  that  when  it  came  to  it,  I 
should  greet  Ferdinand's  wife  kindly.  It  shouldn't  make 
any  difference  with  my  staying  here — here  where  I  was  born. 
Should  you  think  it  ought  ?  " 

The  lorgnette  was  folded  portentously.  "  What  7  think, 
unfortunately  for  you,  Margaret,  isn't  going  to  regulate 
this  matter.  I  think  you  are  in  a  very  painful  position." 

Miss  Margaret's  distress  approached  a  tearful  state. 
"  Ferdinand  has  always  been  very  considerate  to  me,  very. 
You  know  that  everyone  has  said  that  we  get  along  together 
wonderfully.  I've  always  thought  no  one  else  quite  under 
stood  Ferdinand.  You  know  I  love  him  as  though  he  were 
my  own  child.  I've  learned  how  to  take  him,  too.  Can  you 
smell  that  chicken  cooking  in  here?  " 

The  last  sentence  was  spoken  with  an  abrupt  change  of 
voice.  The  fussiness  of  the  housekeeper  for  the  moment  put 
to  flight  less  immediate  troubles. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  perceive  it,"  answered  Mrs.  Balling- 
ton,  sniffing,  and  then  she  started  on  a  new  tack  suggested 
by  the  last  remark. 

"  When  the  household  gets  a  new  mistress,  things  won't 
be  as  they  are  now.  The  piano  will  be  all  littered  up  with 

music  and  she  will  be "  Mrs.  Ballington  hesitated  for  an 

effective  word.  "  Carousing,"  she  said  at  length,  "  with  her 
mother  and  that  deformed  aunt,  all  over  the  house — in  here, 
in  the  sitting-room,  in  the  spare  bed-room."  The  lorgnette 
located  the  scenes  of  future  dissipation. 

Miss  Ballington  winced.  Presently  she  rallied  bravely. 
"  I  have  considerable  hope  for  the  young  girl,"  she  volun 
teered.  "  General  Mott  spoke  very  highly  of  her  father.  He 
called  him  a  most  estimable  man — a  most  estimable  man — a 
man  of  very  great  skill  in  his  profession,  though  a  little  im- 


143 

practical  in  a  business  way.  But  many  of  us  are  impractical, 
Sarah.  I  should  not  look  down  on  Dr.  Sidney  for  that.  It 
was  his  nephew  whom  Beatrice  married,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  was.  These  Sidneys  seem  to  have  a 
faculty  for  wriggling  into  rich  families." 

"  You  don't  think  the  girl  is  going  to  marry  Ferdinand 
for  his  money,  do  you  ?  "  cried  Miss  Ballington  in  alarm. 

Her  sister-in-law  laughed  unpleasantly.  "  What  else 
would  she  marry  him  for?  " 

A  look  of  shocked  bewilderment  greeted  this  last  remark. 
"What  else  would  she  marry  him  for?  "  Miss  Margaret  re 
peated  vaguely ;  "  why,  love,  of  course.  If  I  were  a  girl,  I 
can  understand  how "  She  stopped  in  painful  embar 
rassment. 

Miss  Margaret  had  taken  care  of  her  nephew  from  the 
time  of  his  mother's  death,  when  he  was  but  six  years  old.  He 
never  had  been  a  dependent  child,  and  upon  his  father's  death, 
when  he  was  but  halfway  through  his  teens,  he  quite  naturally 
had  succeeded  him  as  the  head  of  the  house,  Miss  Mar 
garet  becoming  a  mere  figurehead.  Miss  Margaret,  quite 
as  naturally,  gave  him  all  she  had  to  give,  and  loved  him 
the  more  for  it.  She  lavished  upon  him  all  the  wealth  of 
maternal  sentiment  of  which  her  starved  heart  was  capable, 
and,  in  addition,  idealized  him  with  the  unfulfilled  longings 
of  her  girlhood. 

A  moment  later  she  was  struck  by  another  thought,  and 
exclaimed,  "  You  don't  think  Miss  Sidney  is  in  love  with  Don 
ald  still?  ' 

"  I  judge  not.  Tom  says  it's  probable  she  never  was  in 
love  with  him.  It  might  have  been  just  his  money.  But  I'm 
inclined  to  think  there  was  a  passing  infatuation." 

"  How  happy  you  must  feel  for  Donald ! "  Miss  Margaret 
said  sadly. 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  Do  you  know  how  soon — how  soon  Ferdinand  will  be 
married  ?  "  she  asked  with  difficulty. 

"  No.     But  I  presume  it  will  be  soon."     Mrs.  Ballington 


144  THE     BALLINGTONS 

spoke  with  the  cool  impartiality  of  a  judge  sentencing  a 
criminal  to  hang  by  the  neck  till  he  is  dead. 

"  Do  you  think  that  he  is — that  he  is  happy  ?  "  persisted 
the  wretched  woman. 

"  I  presume  he  feels  a  satisfaction  in  being  the  successful 
rival  for  Agnes  Sidney.  Difficulty  adds  a  good  deal  of  zest 
to  courtship." 

Miss  Ballington  half  rose.  "  You  misjudge  him,  Sarah. 
He  wouldn't  enjoy  hurting  Donald.  You  never  understood 
Ferdinand." 

"  He's  just  like  her,"  replied  Mrs.  Silas,  with  a  wave  of  her 
lorgnette  at  an  old-fashioned  portrait  hanging  over  the 
lounge  upon  which  Miss  Margaret  sat. 

Miss  Margaret  always  spoke  of  Ferdinand's  dead  mother 
as  "  Estelle."  Mrs.  Ballington  rarely  mentioned  the  name, 
but  everyone  in  the  family  knew  of  whom  she  was  speaking, 
when,  with  a  peculiar  intonation  always  employed  in  this  con 
nection,  she  said  "  she  "  and  "  her." 

"  Estelle  was  misjudged,  too,"  Miss  Ballington  said  in  a 
low  voice  with  a  twinge  of  memory. 

"  You  know  you  never  liked  her,"  insisted  Mrs.  Ballington 
acrimoniously.  "You  were  always  complaining  of  her." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  complain  of  her." 

"  Oh,  well,  it's  what  would  have  been  called  complaining 
from  any  of  the  rest  of  us.  Of  course  you  never  complain." 

"Perhaps  I  do.  I  have  long  thought  that  I  misjudged 
her,  too.  She  wasn't  like  other  women.  The  Landseers  are 
all  different  from  other  people.  But  Estelle  was  a  very  bril 
liant  woman.  Thomas,  you  know,  said  his  wife  had  more 
brains  than  all  the  Ballington  family  put  together.  Per 
haps  he  was  right,  Sarah.  Perhaps  he  was  right.  We  were 
not  qualified  to  appreciate  her.  Just  the  invention  of  the 
car-spring,  now " 

Mrs.  Ballington  rose.  "  I  never  did  believe  that  story," 
said  she  grimly,  backing  toward  the  hall  door.  "  Thomas, 
no  doubt,  talked  to  her  about  his  inventions.  It  was  childish 
the  way  he  always  courted  her  opinion.  Well,  good-by,  Mar- 


THE    BALLINGTONS  145 

garet,"  she  said,  pausing  a  moment  in  the  doorway,  "  I  will 
send  the  carriage  for  you  whenever  you  want  it,  you  know. 
I  suppose  Ferdinand  will  get  one  now  he's  going  to  be  mar 
ried."  A  moment  later  she  was  sweeping  down  the  walk 
toward  the  carriage. 

Miss  Margaret  remained  where  she  was  on  the  green 
lounge,  helpless  despair  hanging  like  a  pall  over  her  gentle 
inconsequent  spirit,  and  here  Ferdinand  found  her  an  hour 
later  with  slow  tears  coursing  down  her  withered  cheeks,  in 
a  very  different  grief  from  the  impulsive  hysterical  kind  to 
which  he  was  accustomed. 


CHAPTER  X 

A  MONTH  later  Margaret  Ballington  lay  in  a  reclining 
^*  chair,  a  light  rug  wrapped  about  her  little  form,  and  a 
moist  cloth  tied  about  her  head.  She  had  been  ill  for  some 
days,  and  now  was  sitting  up  for  the  first  time.  Now  and 
then  she  closed  her  eyes,  as  an  expression  of  sickening  pain 
passed  over  her  white  face.  Sometimes  she  raised  herself  to 
a  sitting  posture  and  listened  intently.  In  the  next  room 
Ferdinand  was  dressing  to  leave  for  Kent,  where  he  was  to 
be  married  that  evening  to  Agnes  Sidney.  As  Miss  Balling- 
ton  heard  his  slow  footsteps  going  back  and  forth  in  his 
preparations  she  passed  the  most  agonizing  hour  of  her  life. 

After  some  time  Ferdinand's  door  opened,  and  he  stepped 
into  the  hall.  Miss  Margaret  heard  him  approaching.  She 
fell  back  in  her  chair  and  closed  her  eyes,  while  a  gray  pallor 
crept  over  her  face.  He  rapped  gently,  and,  hearing  a  low 
summons  to  enter,  came  in.  He  was  dressed  for  traveling, 
and  he  held  his  hat  and  gloves  in  his  hand.  She  had  heard 
him  set  down  his  portmanteau  in  the  hall. 

"  I  am  just  leaving,"  he  said,  coming  up  to  her  and  stand 
ing  quietly  near  her  chair. 

Her  eyelids  fluttered,  lifted,  and  she  looked  at  him  with 
misery  in  her  gaze. 

He  felt  that  it  would  be  easier  for  both  his  aunt  and  him 
self  if  he  could  get  away  without  exciting  her ;  and,  with  this 
in  his  mind,  he  laid  down  his  hat  and  took  out  his  pocketbook 
in  a  matter-of-fact  but  not  inconsiderate  manner. 

"  I  have  made  a  list  here  of  certain  things  which  will  need 
attention  during  the  next  three  months,"  he  said,  turning  to 
lay  a  slip  of  paper  on  her  desk.  "  I  have  given  Sam  his  direc 
tions  about  the  yard.  He  will  need  watching.  I  have  told 

146 


THE     BALLINGTONS  147 

Eliza  that  she  is  not  to  leave  you  alone  evenings.  Is  there 
anything  else  you  would  like  to  have  me  mention  ?  " 

She  shut  her  eyes  again  and  answered  in  a  faint  voice, 
"  No— Ferdinand.  Thank  you." 

He  regarded  her  a  moment  in  silence  and  then  took  out 
another  paper. 

"  Here  is  my  check  for  next  month's  expenses,"  he  said 
gently,  "  and  here  is  the  dime  you  paid  the  messenger  boy. 
You  may  hold  the  accounts  till  my  return.  We  probably 
shall  be  back  in  three  months.  I  have  arranged  with  Donald 
that  he  is  to  have  an  eye  to  you  from  time  to  time,  and  I  will 
send  you  my  check  so  that  you  will  receive  it  by  the  first  of 
each  month.  I  am  leaving  a  card  here  which  contains  the 
address  of  my  bankers.  I  should  like  to  hear  how  affairs  are 
during  my  absence." 

She  made  no  reply  at  first.  He  waited,  uncertain  whether 
or  not  to  repeat  what  he  had  said,  when  the  same  voice 
answered,  "  Yes — dear." 

"  I  think  that  is  all,  then,"  he  said,  the  restraint  of  his 
words  covering  an  uncomfortable  realization  of  her  suffer 
ings.  "  Is  there  anything  else?  "  he  continued,  trying  his 
best  to  be  kind,  although  his  voice  did  not  relax. 

"  No,  nothing  else." 

"  Then  I  will  say  good-by.  I  am  sorry  to  leave  you  in 
this  condition.  I  have  left  word  for  the  doctor  to  call 
regularly." 

He  was  waiting  for  her  to  open  her  eyes  before  offering  to 
kiss  her  good-by.  But  she  answered  again  with  them  closed, 
"It  doesn't  matter,  dear." 

Then  he  stooped  down  and  kissed  her  worn  face  lightly. 
Before  he  could  rise  again  the  thin  arms  went  up  and 
clasped  his  neck,  while  the  sick  woman  burst  into  hysterical 
crying,  every  other  instant  giving  a  high  wail  in  her  struggle 
to  speak. 

He  extricated  himself  gently,  and  said,  looking  uneasily 
down  at  the  palpitating  little  heap  on  the  chair,  "  Tliis  cry 
ing  will  make  you  ill,  Aunt  Margaret.  I  wish  you  wouldn't 


148 

do  it.  There  isn't  any  occasion  for  grief.  Why  can't  you 
take  my  word  for  it  ?  Agnes  will  be  a  companion  for  you." 

She  heard  hie  words,  but  they  were  stones  for  bread  to  her. 
She  wanted  no  companion  but  him,  and  the  thought  that  she 
was  losing  him  convulsed  her  body  now  as  it  had  been  con 
vulsing  her  mind  for  days  past. 

He  looked  down  at  her  in  distress,  took  out  his  watch, 
glanced  at  it,  and  then  spoke  to  her  again.  "  You  will  soon 
adjust  yourself  to  the  new  conditions,  Aunt  Margaret.  You 
are  ill  now.  Things  will  look  brighter  to  you  in  a  day  or  two. 
I  must  go,  but  I  will  send  Eliza  to  you." 

He  laid  his  hand  for  an  instant  on  her  forehead,  but 
furtively,  so  that  she  could  not  catch  hold  of  him 
again.  Then  he  took  his  hat  and  gloves  and  walked  to  the 
door. 

"You  will  hear  from  me  before  I  sail,"  he  said  from  the 
doorway,  "  and  I  will  write  regularly  afterwards." 

Then  he  went  out  of  the  room,  and  she  heard  him  go  down 
the  stairs  and  speak  to  someone  in  the  hall  below. 

Donald  was  down  there  waiting  for  him.  Donald  had 
wished  to  spare  himself  the  anguish  of  being  present  at 
Agnes'  wedding.  He  soon  saw,  however,  that  in  case  he  de 
clined  the  invitation  Ferdinand  would  have  no  representative 
from  his  own  family.  Mrs.  Ballington  had  refused  to  go. 
Tom  had  gone  off  on  a  fishing  excursion  on  purpose  to  be 
absent,  and  Miss  Margaret's  nerves  could  not  carry  her 
through  such  an  ordeal.  Therefore,  in  spite  of  his  own  tor 
ture  and  his  mother's  ridicule,  Donald  had  resolved  to  go. 

"  The  carriage  is  at  the  door,"  he  said,  as  Ferdinand 
appeared.  "  We  have  just  twenty  minutes." 

They  passed  down  the  walk  together,  each  busy  with  his 
own  thoughts,  and  entered  the  conveyance.  Neither  spoke 
during  the  ride  to  the  station,  and  when  they  boarded  the 
train  they  occupied  different  seats. 

Each  one  of  the  little  group  of  guests  who  met  in  Mrs. 
Sidney's  parlor  to  witness  Agnes'  wedding  felt  less  of  the 
joy  and  more  of  the  solemnity  than  is  usual  on  such  an  occa- 


149 

sion.  Even  Beatrice,  when  she  arrived,  was  subdued  into  the 
prevailing  mood.  Helen  Mabie  could  not  afford  to  come,  and 
the  only  guests  were  Fred  and  Beatrice,  Aunt  Mattie,  Donald, 
and  Dr.  Quinn.  Agnes  moved  among  them,  greeting  each 
with  a  grave  fullness  of  sympathy  which  removed  her  inde 
finably  from  the  girl  of  yesterday. 

As  Donald  watched  her,  meeting  from  time  to  time  the 
friendly  earnestness  of  her  eyes,  he  felt  his  distress  and  mis 
giving  slipping  away  from  him,  while  in  its  place  sprang 
up  a  trust  in  the  future,  out  of  which  he  did  not  wish  to 
reason  himself.  He  let  her  pass  him  several  times,  therefore, 
before  he  brought  himself  to  do  what  he  had  determined  upon 
several  days  before. 

When  he  could  no  longer  postpone  his  intention,  he  went 
up  to  her  almost  regretting  his  pertinacity.  "  I  wish  you 
would  take  me  to  see  your  presents,  Agnes.  I  have  brought 
my  own  little  gift,  and  I  should  like  to  give  it  to  you  in 
person." 

Agnes  willingly  preceded  him  into  her  father's  back-office, 
and  they  stood  together  looking  at  the  gifts  which  had 
pleased  and  flattered  her  mother's  appreciative  heart. 

"  Mother  has  given  me  papa's  cherry  desk,  and  see,  it  is 
filled  with  things  which  his  friends  have  sent  in,"  she  said. 
"  There  are  the  Ballington  gifts ! "  and  she  pointed  to  a 
table  near  by  loaded  with  silver  and  cut-glass. 

She  turned  back  to  the  desk,  opened  one  of  the  little 
drawers,  and  took  out  an  inlaid  box  which  she  unlocked  and 
opened.  Inside,  reposing  on  a  satin  lining  yellow  with  age, 
was  a  long  gold  chain  with  carved  links  of  Renaissance  fret 
work,  joined  hands  forming  the  clasp.  "Miriam  gave  me 
this,"  she  said,  and  took  another  box  from  the  same  drawer. 
"  This  is  Ferdinand's."  The  latter  was  a  little  casket  of 
ivory,  and  inside  was  a  set  of  diamonds. 

Donald  looked  at  them,  too  preoccupied  to  speculate  on 
the  suggestiveness  in  the  two  gifts,  and  as  Agnes  replaced 
them  in  the  drawer  he  drew  a  package  from  his  pocket  and 
balanced  it  in  his  hand  as  he  said  gravely,  "  Here  is  mine.  It 


150  THE    BALLINGTONS 

is  something  I  have  thought  over  ever  since  I  heard  you  were 
engaged.  I  want  you  to  promise  me  not  to  look  at  it  for 
three  months,  and  I  want  you  to  promise  up  to  that  time 
to  keep  it  a  secret." 

Agnes  drew  back  slightly  with  clouding  eyes. 

Donald  went  on.  "And,  after  three  months,  you  are  at 
liberty  to  speak  about  it  or  even  to  return  it  to  me.  I  want 
you  to  consider  that  I  am  giving  it  to  you  with  your  father 
perhaps  more  than  you  in  my  mind." 

The  gentleness  and  kindly  affection  in  his  face  and  manner, 
with  the  quiet  and  assured  reference  to  her  father,  overcame 
Agnes'  reluctance  to  receive  a  gift  so  mysteriously  given. 
Besides,  nothing  seemed  strange  to  her  on  such  a  day.  She 
took  the  package  Donald  held  out  to  her  and  acknowledged 
it  simply,  "  I  will  take  it,  Donald,"  and,  with  a  look  of  trust 
and  confidence,  turned  away  from  him  to  return  to  her 
mother. 

The  childlikeness  of  her  reply  moved  Donald  profoundly. 
He  turned  away  to  the  door  opening  out  of  the  office  into  the 
back  garden.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  could  not  return  to 
the  others  and  go  through  with  the  ceremony.  Grief  and 
apprehension  choked  him  and  blinded  his  eyes.  As  he  stood 
in  the  doorway  the  memory  of  Dr.  Sidney  pervaded  the 
little  office  and  the  garden,  not  accusing,  but  gently  warning 
and  entreating  him.  The  same  gentle  presence  seemed  to  per 
vade  the  little  sitting-room  when  he  returned  for  the  marriage 
ceremony. 

Mr.  Carter  married  them  with  a  bare,  Puritan  brevity 
against  which  his  soul  impotently  rebelled.  It  seemed  to  him 
heathenish  in  Mrs.  Sidney  to  hold  out  against  the  wedding- 
ring.  When  he  began  to  speak,  however,  memories  of  the 
Spartan  weddings  at  which  he  had  been  present  in  boyhood 
came  back  upon  him,  and  there  was  a  simplicity  and  dignity 
in  his  tones  which  he  vaguely  realized  were  more  impressive 
than  any  he  ever  had  been  able  consciously  to  achieve. 

After  the  little  collation,  which  had  been  prepared  by 
Mrs.  Sidney's  hands,  Agnes  dressed  for  traveling. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  151 

She  said  good-by  to  the  little  group,  and  then  followed 
her  mother  into  the  office. 

"  Good-by,  mother,"  she  said,  feeling  faint. 

Mrs.  Sidney's  voice  shook  as  she  replied,  "  Good-by, 
Agnes.  God  bless  you,  my  child." 

Agnes  put  out  her  hands  instinctively.  "Don't,  mother! 
We  shan't  be  separated  long." 

"  No.  No.  But  all  the  evening  I've  been  seeing  you  as 
you  looked  in  your  little  white  dress  with  the  tears  in  your 
eyes,  when  your  father  went  off  to  the  war,  and  he  said  to  me, 
'  Take  good  care  of  the  little  baby,  Kate.' ' 

"  But  I  wasn't  born  then,  mother.     That  was  Helen." 

"  So  it  was !  So  it  was !  "  and  a  smile  broke  over  Mrs.  Sid 
ney's  face. 

"  I'll  write  you  from  New  York,  mother,"  Agnes  con 
tinued  unsteadily,  "and  you  can  depend  on  me  to  send  you 
something,  too.  I  know  that  Ferdinand  expects  to  help  you." 

"  I'll  get  along  alone,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney,  mastering  her 
emotion.  "  When  you're  abroad,  Agnes,  remember  to  have 
proper  respect  for  your  father's  family.  You  are  leaving 
as  good  a  family  as  you  are  marrying  into,"  the  old  lady 
added  with  dignity. 

As  Agnes  looked  at  the  older  face  she  appreciated  as  she 
never  had  before  the  fine  pride  and  power  apparent  there. 
She  threw  her  arms  around  her  mother's  neck  with  a  thrill 
of  gratitude  and  devotion.  "  I'm  not  leaving  this  family," 
she  said,  "  and  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  honor  you  more 
than  I  do  anybody  else  in  the  world." 

The  two  remained  for  a  moment  in  each  other's  arms. 

Then  Mrs.  Sidney  released  her  daughter.  Agnes  picked 
up  her  little  handbag  and  joined  her  husband  at  the  door. 

As  they  opened  it,  a  straggling  crowd  waiting  outside 
broke  into  a  hearty  cheer.  There  were  old  and  young  faces, 
mostly  from  the  common  walks  of  life,  care-worn  women, 
sturdy  laborers,  hard  little  newsboys,  half -grown  girls ;  and 
their  good  wishes  followed  Agnes  as  she  went  down  to  the 
carriage.  A  little  rice  was  timidly  thrown,  but  more  flowers. 


152  THE     BALLINGTONS 

As  Ferdinand  held  open  the  carriage  door  for  her,  Agnes 
turned  suddenly,  with  bursting  heart,  untied  the  ribbon  from 
her  bride  bouquet,  and  flung  the  great  sheaf  of  roses  broad 
cast  over  the  motley  crowd.  She  knew  that  their  feeling 
toward  her  was  because  she  was  her  father's  daughter,  and 
she  tried  to  thank  them  in  her  father's  name,  but  her  voice 
broke,  and  she  turned  and  entered  the  carriage  weeping. 

Mrs.  Sidney,  standing  in  the  door,  the  tears  streaming 
down  her  face,  called  out  in  a  ringing  tone  as  the  carriage 
drove  away: 

"  Agnes  appreciates  this  and  so  do  I." 

At  the  station  a  similar  but  smaller  group  greeted  Agnes' 
arrival. 

As  she  reached  the  car  steps  John  Talbot  came  running 
up  to  them.  "  God  bless  you,  Agnes  ! "  he  cried,  shaking  her 
hand  in  his  two  hard  ones.  "  God  bless  you,  too,  Mr. 
Ballington ! " 

His  loud  tones  caused  a  smile  on  the  faces  of  some  standers- 
by  who  watched  the  little  group  of  three  sympathetically. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  John ! "  said  Agnes  eagerly. 
"  I  wrote  a  note  thanking  Molly  for  your  lovely  present,  but 
I  feel  better  to  tell  you  yourself  how  much  Ferdinand  and  I 
will  enjoy  it.  Won't  we,  Ferdinand?"  and  she  turned  con 
fidingly  to  the  tall  figure  beside  her. 

Ferdinand  bowed  to  John,  and  assisted  Agnes  up  the 
steps  and  into  the  car. 

As  they  sat  down  in  their  stateroom.  Agnes  remarked  his 
silence,  and,  looking  up  into  his  face,  caught  an  expression 
of  discontent. 

"  What  has  annoyed  you,  Ferdinand  ?  "  she  asked,  sen 
sitive  to  his  coldness,  and  with  a  sinking  of  the  heart. 

Ferdinand  did  not  reply  at  once.  When  he  did  it  was  with 
an  effort  to  be  light  in  manner,  "Oh,  perhaps  I  don't  like  to 
have  the  brakemen  on  our  wedding  trip  call  you  by  your  first 
name.  You  are  Mrs.  Ferdinand  Ballington  now." 

"  Why,  that  was  John  Talbot,"  returned  Agnes  in  surprise. 
"  He  meant  it  kindly,  and  he  was  my  father's  friend." 


THE    BALLINGTONS  153 

"He  can  be  kind  without  being  familiar,"  rejoined  Ferdi 
nand  briefly. 

Her  look,  which  had  not  left  him,  became  bewildered,  then 
indescribably  hurt.  She  turned  and  glanced  through  the 
window.  The  familiar  sights  of  her  childhood  were  passing 
rapidly.  There  was  the  tannery,  there  the  mills,  there  was 
John  Talbot's  house,  and — yes !  Molly  was  waving  a  hand 
kerchief  from  the  door.  Over  beyond  was  the  plank  road 
where  she  had  loved  to  ride  with  her  father.  Now  came  the 
car  shops — then  fields,  fields,  fields.  She  looked  back  till  the 
last  outskirt  of  the  town  trailed  away  in  the  distance. 

With  sudden  forgetfulness  of  all  save  her  longing  for 
sympathy,  she  turned  spontaneously,  with  tears  on  her  lashes 
and  a  smile  on  her  lips,  to  Ferdinand,  who  was  sitting 
opposite  her. 

He  had  been  watching  her  intently,  but  had  not  disturbed 
her  good-by  to  the  home  of  her  girlhood.  The  wait  was 
becoming  intolerable  to  him.  As  she  looked  toward  him  he 
leaned  over  and  caught  her  hands  in  sudden  passion.  "  My 
love ! "  he  said  in  a  very  low  voice,  "  My  wife ! "  and  he  bent 
his  head  down  and  rested  his  throbbing  forehead  on  their 
clasped  hands. 


PART  III 


CHAPTER   I 

months  in  Europe  marked  a  great  change  in  Agnes 
Ballington  and  in  the  relations  between  Ferdinand  and 
her. 

The  first  change  in  her  was  an  external  one,  for  soon  after 
reaching  London  Ferdinand  had  disregarded  carelessly  a 
good  share  of  the  hand-made  trousseau  which  Mrs.  Sidney 
had  toiled  over  day  and  night  to  make  for  Agnes,  and  had 
supplied  in  its  place  costly  and  conventional  garments  of  his 
own  selection.  Agnes  tried  to  thank  him  for  his  presents, 
but  there  was  a  lasting  hurt  in  her  heart.  She  remembered 
her  own  dissatisfaction  with  her  trousseau.  Now  such  clothes 
as  she  had  craved  might  be  hers,  but  when  she  looked  at  them 
she  saw  only  a  tired  woman  stitching  by  lamp-light.  When 
Ferdinand  criticised  laughingly  her  country  dresses,  her 
heart  went  out  to  her  mother  in  an  agony  of  love  such  as  she 
never  had  felt  for  her  before.  She  would  have  given  all  this 
new  world  of  art  and  beauty  for  that  old  cheaply-held  privi 
lege  of  bringing  a  smile  to  her  mother's  weary  eyes. 

The  change  was  not  alone  in  soft  drapery  and  Rembrandt 
plumes.  A  subtle  metamorphosis  was  noticeable  in  the  young 
wife's  eyes.  They  held  no  longer  the  clear,  light-hearted 
gaze  of  a  girl.  There  was  an  awakening  of  something  less 
assured,  more  poignant.  Ferdinand  did  all  the  planning  for 
the  trip,  and  he  conscientiously  got  down  to  the  business  of 
pleasure-seeking.  They  went  the  rounds  of  the  sights  in  the 
different  cities  they  visited,  Agnes  often  weary,  but  strug 
gling  on  to  fall  in  with  her  husband's  desires.  She  soon  felt 
the  difference  between  the  old  companionship  with  her  father, 
with  its  ever-patient  courtesy  and  deference  to  her  taste,  its 
ignoring  of  conventional  and  artificial  standards,  its  linger 
ing  over  rare  and  modest  beauties  ordinarily  passed  by,  and 

154 


THE    BALLINGTONS  155 

this  new  companionship,  insisting  upon  promptness,  order, 
thorough-going  putting-through  of  a  stereotyped  schedule. 
At  first  she  rebelled  a  little,  once  even  refused  to  carry  out 
Ferdinand's  programme  for  an  afternoon,  insisted  instead  on 
loitering  away  the  time  in  a  park,  but  before  the  afternoon 
was  over  she  had  repented  of  her  petulance  and  apologized  for 
it.  She  did  not  indulge  again  a  recalcitrant  spirit,  but  there 
came  over  her  now  and  then  a  vague  dread  of  a  time  coming 
when  two  alien  natures  might  challenge  each  other  and  when 
she  might  be  strong  enough  to  walk  along  the  way  her  own 
nature  impelled,  not  in  willfulness  but  in  resolve. 

An  uneasiness,  too,  about  her  financial  position  grew  upon 
her  as  the  weeks  passed.  She  had  left  home  with  the  last  dol 
lars  of  her  earnings  in  her  purse.  They  soon  were  spent  in 
petty  requirements  of  which  she  felt  shy  about  telling  her 
husband,  and  Ferdinand  offered  her  no  more.  She  worried 
about  her  mother's  needs,  was  hurt  that  her  husband  never 
referred  to  them  or  to  his  promise  to  see  that  her  mother  was 
cared  for,  and  presently  began  to  worry  about  herself.  Once 
or  twice  she  gathered  courage  to  ask  Ferdinand  for  little 
sums  of  money,  but  he  usually  replied  by  inquiring  what 
she  wished,  and  then  buying  it  for  her  himself.  In  London 
she  suggested  laying  in  a  stock  of  gloves,  saying  that  she 
would  like  to  send  some  to  Helen  and  her  mother,  but  Ferdi 
nand  had  answered  that  it  never  was  economy  to  buy  more 
than  one  needs,  and  he  made  no  reference  at  all  to  her  pro 
posed  gifts.  Agnes'  shame  in  thinking  of  her  mother  in 
creased  as  she  learned  from  Beatrice's  newsy  letters  that  she 
was  taking  embroidery  lessons  from  Mrs.  Sidney  and  paying 
her  for  them.  Once  Agnes  came  to  hot  words  with  Ferdinand 
over  a  wedding  present  she  had  wished  to  send  an  old  Kent 
friend.  The  girl  was  poor,  and  when  Agnes  was  married 
had  made  her  a  gift  commensurate  with  her  means.  Ferdi 
nand  had  required,  not  discourteously,  that  the  gift  they 
returned  should  be  no  more  expensive  than  the  one  which 
they  had  received.  To  Agnes'  insistence  that  great  love  had 
come  to  her  with  her  friend's  gift,  he  had  replied  good- 


156  THE    BALLINGTONS 

humoredly,  "  Pay  it  back  in  love.  No  good  ever  comes  from 
mixing  coin." 

These  incidents  brought  Agnes  to  a  first  attempt  to  reach 
a  financial  arrangement  with  her  husband  which  would  be 
satisfactory  to  both  of  them.  Up  to  this  time  she  had 
adopted  Beatrice's  motto,  "  Carpe  diem."  She  had  tried 
to  drug  her  increasing  anxiety  with  the  sophistry  natural  to 
brides  that  her  first  duty  was  to  please  Ferdinand,  but  she 
was  becoming  so  exhausted  and  low-spirited,  and  Ferdinand 
so  sated  with  attentions,  that  there  was  desirability  of  a 
change  if  they  expected  to  pass  their  lives  together. 

Agnes'  latent  common  sense  awoke  one  morning.  Maxims 
of  her  mother  passed  through  her  mind — homely  but  wise  pre 
cepts  about  the  necessity  of  keeping  the  mind  off  one's  self, 
about  the  mistake  of  pampering  healthy  natures  into  queru- 
lousness.  "  A  foolish  woman  can  spoil  the  best  man  that 
ever  lived,  inside  of  one  year,"  Agnes  remembered  her  mother 
saying  on  several  occasions  when  Mrs.  Sidney  had  vetoed 
some  of  the  doctor's  cherished  plans.  Her  father  had  yielded 
after  mild  expostulation.  Agnes  had  been  indignant  at  see 
ing  him  yield,  and  her  mother's  proverb  had  seemed  to  her  a 
self-satisfied  and  ostentatious  proclaiming  of  victory.  But 
with  better  understanding  of  her  mother,  she  realized  now 
that  Mrs.  Sidney  had  disguised  not  the  joy,  but  the  pain,  of 
victory  by  arraying  the  latter  on  the  side  of  age-old  wisdom. 
"  Mother  was  a  sensible  woman  to  face  disagreeable  situations 
as  they  arose,"  Agnes  reflected.  "  That  is  what  Ferdinand 
and  I  must  do.  I  have  been  putting  off  this  money  discus 
sion  long  enough."  She  finished  dressing  her  hair  and  stuck 
a  shell-pin  into  it  aggressively.  "  It  looks  like  the  feather 
on  the  head  of  a  Pawnee  chief  setting  out  on  the  warpath," 
she  said,  pausing  to  survey  herself  before  she  left  the  mirror. 

They  had  completed  their  tour  of  Germany,  and  were  to 
start  that  morning  for  Lucerne. 

During  breakfast  Agnes'  resolve  filled  her  with  unusual 
vivacity.  When  they  were  halfway  through,  Ferdinand  put 
down  his  newspaper  to  look  at  her  curiously. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  157 

She  caught  his  puzzled  expression  and  touched  the  orna 
ment  in  her  hair.  "  That  is  the  white  plume  of  Navarre, 
Ferdinand." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  her  husband  replied  seriously,  and  returned  to 
his  reading. 

Agnes'  spirits  were  dampened.  She  fell  into  a  thoughtful 
mood,  which  lasted  until  they  were  aboard  their  train  and 
well  started  on  their  southward  journey. 

At  last,  with  an  effort  of  will,  she  turned  to  her  husband, 
opened  her  empty  pocketbook,  and  held  it  out  to  him,  looking 
him  full  in  the  eyes  as  she  did  so. 

He  made  no  effort  to  take  it,  but  returned  her  gaze,  ap 
parently  oblivious  of  the  entreaty  in  her  eyes  and  of  the 
embarrassed  flush  on  her  cheeks. 

"  Ferdinand,  I  want  some  money,"  she  said  at  length.  A 
subtle  impulse  of  anger  in  her  heart  helped  out  the  words. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  buy  something  ?  Tell  me  what  you  need 
and  I  will  get  it  for  you." 

His  tone  was  considerate,  but  Agnes'  eyes  flashed  as  she 
answered,  "  Perhaps  I  don't  need  anything,  Ferdinand.  When 
I  do,  I  like  to  get  it  myself.  I  don't  want  to  ask  you  for 
everything.  I  have  to  ask  you  to  post  my  letters,  and  then 
I  have  to  explain  why  I'm  writing  so  often  to  the  same 
people." 

Ferdinand  ignored  her  last  sentence  as  he  replied  cour 
teously,  "You  will  always  find  stamps  in  the  portfolio.  I 
don't  see  why  you  should  feel  as  you  apparently  do,  since 
I  do  not  recall  that  I  ever  have  refused  to  get  you  anything 
within  reason  which  you  desired,  and  I  have  endeavored  to 
anticipate  your  wishes." 

Agnes  was  ashamed  of  her  exclamation,  and  when  she  next 
spoke  it  was  in  a  different  mood.  "  That  was  a  small  thing 
for  me  to  say,  Ferdinand.  I'm  ashamed  of  myself.  The  fact 
is,  for  some  time  back  I've  never  been  dependent  upon  other 
people  for  money.  I  used  to  earn  money  from  my  father 
and  by  giving  lessons,  and  I've  been  accustomed  to  an  inde 
pendent  purse.  I'm  convinced  that  you  should  allow  me  this 


158  THE    BALLINGTONS 

privilege.  It  will  be  a  source  of  endless  friction  and  humilia 
tion,  if  you  do  not." 

Ferdinand  reflected,  then  took  out  his  pocketbook.  As  he 
did  so  he  looked  up  at  his  wife.  "  I  have  a  system  of  accounts 
which  I  have  kept  ever  since  I  was  twelve  years  old.  I  had 
intended  to  explain  it  to  you  when  you  should  assume  the 
housekeeping.  I  wished  to  make  this  time  as  free  as  possible 
for  you,  and  I  knew  how  difficult  it  is  for  women  to  be  orderly 
in  money  matters.  It  may,  however,  be  a  good  plan  for  you 
to  begin  accounts  on  a  small  scale  now."  He  opened  his 
pocketbook,  took  out  a  gold  louis,  and  handed  it  to  her. 

The  red  in  Agnes'  cheeks  rushed  over  her  whole  face.  "  I 
don't  want  alms,  Ferdinand.  Keep  your  louis ! "  she  said 
vehemently,  and  turned  to  the  window  to  hide  her  face 
from  him. 

"  Agnes,"  Ferdinand  said  gently. 

She  made  no  answer. 

He  crossed  over  to  her,  put  out  his  arm,  and  tried  to  draw 
her  to  him. 

She  drew  herself  away  from  him  decidedly,  but  turned  her 
burning  face,  with  tears  running  down  it,  toward  him. 
"  Take  away  your  arm !  "  she  said. 

He  sat  still  a  moment,  then  rose,  took  his  own  seat  again, 
and  picked  up  his  guide-book. 

Presently  he  laid  down  the  book,  glanced  through  the 
'window,  and  remarked  civilly,  "  We  are  passing  through  a 
remarkable  country.  You  may  never  see  it  again." 

"  I  am  looking  at  it,"  she  answered,  a  mist  obscuring 
everything  before  her  eyes. 

They  reached  their  destination  late  in  the  afternoon. 
Agnes  went  at  once  to  her  room,  where  Ferdinand  left  her, 
saying  he  would  go  for  a  stroll  and  get  their  mail.  His  last 
words  advised  her  to  take  a  nap  before  dinner. 

Agnes  closed  the  door  behind  him  without  replying,  and 
instead  of  sleeping  sat  down  to  think  over  the  situation  in 
which  she  found  herself. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  realized  unmistakably  what 


THE    BALLINGTONS  159 

the  consequences  might  be  of  relinquishing  independence. 
As  a  child,  and  later  on  as  a  girl,  she  had  taken  naturally  to  a 
general  supervision  by  her  mother  of  her  expenditures,  but 
she  always  had  earned  a  little,  and  of  late  had  been  the  princi 
pal  wage-earner  of  the  family.  To  pass  from  the  position  of 
supporting  a  household  to  being  childishly  dependent  was 
galling.  "  I  have  nothing  of  my  own  except  the  clothes  I 
brought  from  home  and  my  wedding  presents,"  she  thought. 
The  sense  of  distance  from  her  home  and  friends  deepened 
the  helplessness  she  felt. 

As  her  mind  reviewed  the  little  property  she  possessed  in 
her  own  right,  Donald's  unopened  gift  occurred  to  her,  and 
she  remembered  that  she  had  been  married  a  little  over  three 
months. 

She  rose  at  once  to  get  it,  grateful  to  have  her  thoughts 
diverted.  She  took  the  packet  from  her  trunk,  removed  the 
outer  wrapping,  and  saw  a  second  envelope  with  these  words : 

These  packages  are  to  be  opened  one  a  month  and  used  by  Mrs.  Bal- 
lington  as  she  likes. 

She  opened  the  first  packet,  and,  with  a  feeling  of  bewilder 
ment  as  though  a  miracle  had  happened,  found  five  American 
twenty-dollar  bills  inside. 

The  color  slowly  rose  in  her  face  as  she  looked  at  them. 
Astonishment,  humiliation,  an  impulse  to  return  the  packet 
to  Donald,  struggled  within  her.  She  began  to  tie  it  up 
again  with  trembling  fingers,  but  her  thought  outstripped 
her  hands.  Presently  she  paused  and  the  packet  sank  un 
heeded  in  her  lap. 

It  had  come  when  she  most  needed  it.  The  impulse  to 
return  the  money  vanished  before  an  irresistible  longing  for 
it.  It  was  hers,  had  been  given  to  her  in  her  father's  name. 
This  thought  forced  the  explanation  of  the  gift  home  to  her. 
"  Ferdinand  does  not  intend  to  give  me  money  to  do  as  I  like 
with.  Donald  knew  this  and  wanted  me  to  have  some.  He 
didn't  want  me  to  open  it  for  three  months  because  he  wanted 


160  THE    BALLINGTONS 

me  to  be  familiar  with  Ferdinand's  ways  and  so  use  the 
money  well ;  and  he  didn't  want  me  to  use  it  all  at  once." 

She  turned  the  matter  over  in  her  mind,  realizing  that  the 
first  crisis  had  come  in  her  married  life,  and  that  her  decision 
now  might  have  serious  consequences.  She  already  felt  from 
stray  remarks  of  Ferdinand's  that  there  was  a  latent  irrita 
tion  in  her  husband's  heart  toward  his  partner.  If  she  went 
to  her  husband  now  and  laid  the  matter  before  him  she  felt 
that  trouble  would  ensue  between  Ferdinand  and  Donald 
which  might  result  in  permanent  enstrangement.  A  wave  of 
bitterness  at  being  forced  to  this  pass  surged  up  in  her. 
Again  she  felt  rebellion  against  her  husband,  but  it  presently 
spent  itself,  and  her  mind  went  on  dispassionately.  "  If  I  tell 
Ferdinand,  I'll  either  have  to  return  the  money  to  Donald  or 
there  will  be  a  serious  quarrel  between  us.  In  either  case  the 
relations  between  all  three  of  us  will  be  awkward  indefinitely. 
Moreover,  I  need  this  amount  and  more,  and  Ferdinand  never 
would  give  it  to  me.  He  has  refused  to  allow  me  to  send 
gifts  to  my  mother  and  sister.  Donald  knows  some  things 
about  him  better  than  I  did." 

As  her  mind  went  back  to  the  time  Donald  had  given  her 
the  package,  she  remembered  his  open  and  friendly  expres 
sion.  Her  thought  passed  from  that  memory  to  all  that  she 
ever  had  known  of  him,  and  a  look  of  decision  grew  into  her 
face.  "I  am  going  to  trust  Donald's  judgment,"  she 
concluded. 

A  letter  already  written  to  her  mother  was  lying  unsealed 
in  her  portfolio.  With  a  thrill  of  relief  and  happiness,  she 
picked  it  up,  inclosed  three  of  the  bills  in  it,  and  sealed  it. 
A  few  moments  later  she  had  written  a  short  letter  to  Helen, 
inclosing  the  fourth  bill  to  her.  Then  she  rang  for  a  servant, 
sent  the  letters  to  the  post,  that  there  might  be  no  possibility 
of  recall,  and  put  the  fifth  bill  in  her  own  pocketbook.  The 
four  remaining  packets  she  returned  to  the  bottom  of  her 
trunk. 


CHAPTER  II 

HPHE  same  maid  who  had  taken  Agnes'  letters  to  be  posted 
returned  a  little  later,  tapped  at  the  door,  and  brought 
in  a  small  parcel  which  Monsieur  had  wished  delivered  to 
Madame. 

Agnes  took  it  with  a  feeling  of  apprehension.  It  was  a 
velvet  case  containing  a  ring;  a  triple  loop  of  diamonds, 
rubies,  and  pearls. 

Agnes  looked  at  the  jewels  with  mixed  feelings.  It  was 
undoubtedly  Ferdinand's  peace-offering.  If  she  declined  the 
gift,  as  was  her  first  impulse,  she  would  hurt  him.  If  she 
accepted  it  grudgingly,  he  would  think  she  was  not  satisfied 
with  its  value.  If  she  showed  much  pleasure,  he  would  be 
inclined  to  think  that  it  was  greed  which  had  made  her  ask 
for  money. 

She  finally  submitted  to  the  latter  embarrassment,  dressed 
hurriedly  for  dinner,  put  the  ring  on  her  finger,  and  sat  down 
to  wait  till  he  should  come  for  her.  She  put  aside  an  uneasy 
regret  at  having  used  Donald's  gift  beyond  recall. 

Some  minutes,  a  half  hour,  passed. 

She  looked  at  her  watch  and  saw  that  dinner  was  already 
in  progress.  She  had  heard  Ferdinand  enter  his  room,  but 
for  some  little  time  no  sound  had  come  from  him.  She  got 
up  and  went  to  the  door  opening  into  his  apartment  and 
knocked. 

There  was  an  instant  response,  and  in  a  moment  he  had 
reached  the  door  and  opened  it. 

She  noticed  that  he  was  dressed  for  dinner,  that  he  was 
slightly  pale,  and  that  he  looked  at  her  intently  with  eyes 
which  seemed  a  deeper  blue  than  usual.  She  tried  to  smile. 
"  Arc  you  ready,  Ferdinand  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  have  been 
waiting  for  you." 

161 


162  THE     BALLINGTONS 

She  hesitated,  then  raised  her  hand  with  the  ring  upon  it. 
"  It  is  very,  very  beautiful,"  she  said  sadly. 

"You  are  pleased  with  it?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes — it  is  exquisite — and  most  so  because  you  gave  it 
to  me."  There  was  a  ring  of  sincerity  in  her  voice. 

Ferdinand  appreciated  the  tone,  and  kissed  the  fingers 
and  palm  of  the  hand  raised  to  him. 

They  went  together  to  the  dining-room,  conscious  of  a 
reconciliation. 

As  they  walked  together  down  the  long  hall  he  noticed  her 
heightened  color,  and  a  momentary  return  of  his  first  keen 
zest  in  the  possession  of  her  gave  to  his  eyes  and  voice  that 
early  devotion  for  which  she  had  been  hungering  for  days. 
"  You  are  very  beautiful  to-night,"  he  said. 

She  smiled  an  answer,  fearing  to  speak  lest  she  should 
break  the  spell,  but  in  her  heart  she  was  thinking,  "  To  him 
that  hath,  it  shall  be  given." 

During  dinner  Ferdinand's  concentration  upon  her  died  a 
natural  death.  She  knew  that  she  was  losing  his  attention, 
and  the  disappointment  fired  her  into  effort.  He  responded 
to  her  conversation  perfunctorily,  and  at  last  said,  when  she 
paused,  "  I  came  across  an  acquaintance  of  mine  while  I  was 
out — Frank  Rousseau.  He  belongs  to  the  Jean-Jacques  fam 
ily.  It  was  rather  agreeable  to  see  someone  I  knew.  Would 
you  like  to  meet  him?  " 

"  Yes,  if  you  wish,"  she  answered.    "  Is  he  staying  here  ?  " 

"  I  believe  he  is.  We  made  a  partial  engagement  to  meet 
this  evening  at  a  pavilion  near  the  hotel.  An  operetta  is 
going  on  there.  It  is  a  cheap  affair,  but  somewhat  popular." 

Agnes  acquiesced  in  the  arrangement,  and  after  they  had 
finished  dining  they  walked  across  the  hotel  lawn  to  the  sum 
mer  pavilion,  where  they  found  two  men  waiting  for  them, 
Rousseau  and  a  friend  of  his,  Mr.  Partlow. 

As  Ferdinand  presented  her  to  his  friends  she  felt  a  natural 
desire  to  do  him  honor.  With  something  of  an  effort  she  en 
tered  into  conversation  with  young  Rousseau,  but  with  her 
mind  upon  Ferdinand.  She  saw  that  she  was  succeeding  in  in- 


THE    BALLINGTONS  163 

teresting  the  strangers  and  she  felt  an  impulse  to  arouse  the 
same  interest  in  her  husband.  It  was  with  fear  and  distress 
at  the  realization  that  she  had  lost  the  power  to  do  this  last 
that  she  turned  instinctively  to  the  weapons  with  which  nature 
armed  the  female  sex.  She  simulated  an  interest  which  she 
was  far  from  feeling,  in  Rousseau's  anecdotes. 

Ferdinand  entered  occasionally  into  the  conversation,  but 
more  often  sat  silent,  watching  his  wife. 

Presently  the  conversation  turned  upon  religion,  and  as 
it  was  introduced  Agnes'  artificial  zest  died  out.  This  was 
an  even  more  tender  point  with  her  than  finances.  Ferdinand 
and  she  had  circled  about  it  in  an  ever-narrowing  spiral  for 
three  months,  but  of  late  an  instinct  of  self-preservation  had 
warned  her  to  keep  away  from  it.  What  she  had  dreaded  to 
approach  while  she  and  Ferdinand  were  alone  was  doubly 
painful  now  that  it  was  touched  in  public. 

Mr.  Rousseau,  however,  did  not  lose  his  zest.  As  Agnes 
withdrew  from  the  conversation  his  evident  desire  to  retain 
her  in  it  increased.  His  manner  was  colored  by  indirect  gal 
lantry  which  was  no  longer  acceptable.  Nor  was  the  strength 
of  Mr.  Rousseau's  argument  helped  thereby,  as  was  evidenced 
by  a  sardonic  gleam  in  Ferdinand's  eyes  at  his  friend's  hope 
less  mixture  of  compliment  and  Galvanism. 

"  Are  you  a  rationalist  also,  Mrs.  Ballington?  "  asked  the 
young  man  finally. 

"  1  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  Agnes  answered  red 
dening. 

"  My  wife  is  *  wobbling,' "  commented  Ferdinand  dryly. 
His  observation  of  his  wife  had  led  him  to  the  explanation 
which  Agnes  had  foreseen.  He  concluded  that  the  ring  had 
restored  her  good-humor  and  that  the  admiration  of  the 
strangers  had  completed  her  feminine  satisfaction.  Vanity 
and  the  love  of  admiration  were  fundamental  in  women,  as 
was  also  hysterical  religious  emotion,  which  now  logically 
followed. 

"  No,  I'm  not  wobbling ! "  exclaimed  Agnes  decidedly. 
"  I'm  a  Christian !  I'm  a  Presbyterian !  " 


164  THE     BALLINGTONS 

Rousseau  cast  upon  her  a  look  of  blandishment.  "  Thy 
God  shall  be  my  God,"  he  said  with  invincible  complaisance. 
"  In  deference  to  you  I  shall  become  a  follower  of  Calvin." 

A  satirical  smile  from  Ferdinand  rewarded  his  covert  wit 
ticism. 

Agnes  stood  up  and  looked  down  upon  the  speaker  with  a 
quivering  face.  Without  knowing  it  she  was  making  him  a 
scapegoat  for  her  own  and  her  husband's  short-comings. 
"  You  are  a  blasphemer,"  she  said  distinctly.  "  Ferdinand, 
I  wish  to  go  to  the  hotel." 

Ferdinand  arose,  but  made  no  movement  forward.  He 
was  irritated.  Feminine  traits  were  becoming  too  pro 
nounced,  and  he  was  beginning  to  regret  his  gift. 

"  This  walk  along  the  lake  is  very  beautiful  by  moon 
light,"  he  said,  without  noticing  his  wife's  exclamation. 
"  Suppose  we  take  a  stroll."  He  turned  away  with  Mr.  Part- 
low,  leaving  Agnes  to  the  attentions  of  Rousseau. 

Rousseau  sprang  to  assist  her.  She  received  his  aid  trem 
bling  with  humiliation,  and  walked  some  distance  across  the 
pavilion  deaf  to  his  nervous  efforts  at  apology.  '  Her  weak 
ness  in  thus  yielding  galled  her  pride  indescribably,  and  as 
they  neared  the  steps  to  the  lawn  she  was  debating  a  decisive 
move. 

Mr.  Partlow  and  Ferdinand  were  a  little  in  advance. 
Agnes  quickened  her  pace  and  spoke  to  her  husband  as  they 
descended  the  stairs.  "  I  don't  care  to  walk,  Ferdinand. 
You  misunderstood  me.  I  wish  you  to  take  me  to  the  hotel." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  intently  upon  her  husband,  and,  not 
heeding  the  last  stair,  she  stepped  too  heavily  to  the  ground, 
turned  her  ankle  as  she  did  so,  and  uttered  a  cry  of  pain. 

She  noticed  Ferdinand's  face  change.  He  was  beside  her 
at  once,  pushing  Rousseau  aside  as  he  took  the  support  of 
his  wife,  and  said  to  her  with  concern  in  his  voice,  "  Are 
you  hurt  ?  " 

"  No,  it's  nothing."  She  tested  the  foot  carefully.  "  It 
hurts  a  little." 

"  Let  me  carry  you  across  the  lawn,"  he  insisted. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  165 

"  It's  all  right,"  she  replied  hurriedly.  "  Let  us  move 
away  from  these  men." 

When  they  had  gone  a  little  way.  she  broke  down  and  began 
to  cry  from  mortification  over  the  scene  they  had  passed 
through. 

Ferdinand  felt  her  tears,  thought  they  proceeded  from 
physical  pain,  stooped  and  picked  her  up  in  his  arms.  "  You 
are  suffering,"  he  said.  "  Whj  did  you  try  to  walk?  " 

He  carried  her  as  though  she  were  a  child  through  the 
almost  deserted  yard  to  the  side  door  of  the  hotel.  "  It  isn't 
my  ankle,"  she  kept  repeating  hysterically.  "  Do  put  me 
down."  His  only  answer  was  to  hold  her  more  determinedly 
in  his  arms.  She  resigned  herself  to  the  situation. 

When  they  reached  the  elevator  he  put  her  gently  upon 
her  feet.  "  Is  Madame  ill?  "  asked  the  man  running  the  ele 
vator,  to  whom  Agnes  always  had  given  a  friendly  smile. 
Ferdinand  met  the  man's  eyes  and  made  no  reply.  The  man 
turned  immediately  to  his  rope. 

In  the  upper  hall  Ferdinand  supported  his  wife  to  her 
room,  where  he  laid  her  down  upon  her  bed,  and  unlaced  the 
shoe  from  the  injured  foot.  Agnes  lay  quite  still  while  he 
went  through  her  trunk  in  a  man's  vague  search  for  some 
thing  out  of  which  to  make  a  bandage.  She  felt  an  inclina 
tion  to  laugh  at  his  air  of  professional  complacence  as  he  at 
last  unearthed  and  tore  up  a  home-made  undergarment  to 
which  he  always  had  had  an  aversion.  She  continued  to 
watch  him  while  he  bound  up  the  supposedly  injured  member 
tightly,  pointing  out  where  it  would  begin  to  swell,  and  ex 
plaining  just  how  a  bandage  should  be  put  on  in  order  to 
stay  on.  The  humor  of  the  situation  grew  upon  her  as  sho 
remembered  how  many  times  she  had  assisted  her  father  in 
the  same  operation,  but  she  refrained  from  telling  Ferdi 
nand  that  he  was  doing  it  wrong,  and  they  said  good-night 
amicably  on  both  sides. 

After  Ferdinand  left  her,  Agnes  lay  in  the  quiescence  that 
follows  the  cessation  of  nervous  tension.  She  realized  that 
she  had  entered  a  new  phase  of  her  relations  with  her  husband, 


166 

that  she  no  longer  expected  complete  understanding  or  sym 
pathy  from  him.  It  was  not  only  Donald's  present  that 
forced  this  fact  upon  her.  It  had  been  growing  upon  her 
ever  since  she  left  home  with  Ferdinand.  She  had  thought 
she  understood  him  before  they  were  married,  and  she  had  put 
off  the  discussion  of  certain  topics  until  after  they  were  mar 
ried,  thinking  that  the  intimacy  of  the  complete  union  would 
make  it  easy  to  talk  over  vital  subjects.  It  had  seemed 
enough  to  her  that  they  had  confessed  a  mutual  love.  She 
had  believed  that  such  a  confession  involved  a  life-long  effort 
to  attain  a  spiritual  union  for  which  only  the  marriage  bond 
offered  opportunity.  She  had  waited  with  unimaginable 
eagerness  for  that  sacred  unveiling  of  the  inmost  thoughts 
and  aspirations  with  which  she  had  peopled  Ferdinand's 
reticent  soul.  She  had  felt  that  this  revelation  of  him  would 
help  her  to  understand  herself  spiritually.  She  had  waited 
the  three  months  in  vain.  At  first  she  had  expected  him  to 
take  the  initiative,  and  when  that  hope  was  disappointed  she 
tried  timidly  herself  to  talk  upon  subjects  her  father  con 
versed  upon  as  freely  as  upon  family  affairs.  It  puzzled  her 
that  Ferdinand  responded  to  her  advances  in  a  way  which 
showed  that  he  had  misunderstood  her  desires,  and  when  she 
endeavored  to  explain  herself  met  her  with  a  humorous  in 
dulgence.  Then  Agnes  instinctively  ceased  seeking  more 
than  he  wished  to  give.  Something  warned  her  that  she  was 
happier  than  she  would  be  after  a  complete  understanding 
with  him.  Where  she  formerly  spent  hours  in  day-dreams 
wondering  what  he  was  like,  she  now  found  herself  shutting 
those  speculations  out  of  her  mind.  Ferdinand's  change  of 
manner  this  evening,  from  the  cold  insult  of  his  disregard 
when  she  wished  to  be  relieved  of  Rousseau's  society  to  his 
solicitude  when  she  strained  her  ankle,  had  occasioned  one 
of  those  rare  periods  in  which  she  allowed  herself  to  think 
of  this  old  mirage  of  their  higher  union.  Why  was  it,  she 
asked  herself  passionately,  that  they  had  been  disappointed, 
so  far,  of  what  she  had  yearned  for  as  the  highest  good?  It 
could  not  be  that  Ferdinand  did  not  love  her.  She  remem- 


THE    BALLINGTONS  167 

bered  expressions  that  were  unmistakable,  moments  when  he 
had  forgotten  himself  and  seemed  to  think  only  of  her.  She 
had  tried  to  use  those  moments  to  lead  to  something  less 
transient,  and  then  she  always  had  lost  them.  She  confessed 
to  herself  at  last  that  these  moments  of  forgetfulness  on 
Ferdinand's  part  were  growing  rarer  and  briefer.  She  had 
been  eager  for  one  to-night,  and  she  reflected  upon  the  means 
she  instinctively  had  employed  to  bring  it  about.  She  had 
failed  ignominiously  to  evoke  sympathy  in  her  mental  suffer 
ing,  but  a  chance  accident  had  enabled  her  to  use  a  turned 
ankle  with  instantaneous  success.  Was  it  true  that  Ferdi 
nand  was  dead  to  everything  except  physical  suffering? 
material  appeals?  palpable  success?  Would  she  have  to  live 
alone  that  inner  life  for  which  she  felt  so  weak  and  helpless, 
whose  long  road  she  was  so  unfit  to  travel  without  a  guide? 


CHAPTER   III 

TOURING  the  night  after  the  last  conversation  and  the 
day  following  it  Agnes'  state  of  mind  changed.  Second 
and  cooler  thoughts  came  to  her.  She  felt  that  she  must  not 
let  this  critical  financial  and  religious  discussion  pass  without 
its  bettering  the  relations  between  Ferdinand  and  herself. 
She  had  thought  over  Ferdinand's  offer  of  the  louis,  and  of 
his  immediate  attempt  at  reconciliation  after  her  refusal. 

She  assured  her  husband  in  the  morning  that  her  ankle 
was  quite  strong,  and  they  spent  the  day  as  he  had  planned, 
taking  a  long  ride  on  horseback  along  the  mountain  roads 
to  spend  the  night  at  a  chalet.  The  precipitous  grandeur  of 
the  Alps  and  the  blue  peace  of  the  lake  below  affected  her  as 
nature  always  affects  the  non-egoist. 

The  long  day's  ramble  wearied  them  both,  and  after  dinner 
they  went  early  to  their  room. 

As  they  stood  on  the  balcony,  looking  in  silence  at  the 
purity  of  the  mountain  peaks,  on  which  the  flush  of  twilight 
and  the  white  glory  of  the  moon  were  shining,  Agnes  was  con 
scious  of  a  gentleness  and  serenity  surrounding  both  her  and 
her  husband.  She  felt  for  the  first  time  that  it  would  be 
easy  to  speak  to  him  on  vital  things,  and  she  said  to  him 
naturally  and  unaffectedly,  "  Ferdinand,  when  you  offered 
me  money  in  the  car  yesterday  I  was  wrong  to  refuse  it  as  I 
did.  I  have  thought  it  over,  and  I  am  willing  to  accommo 
date  myself  to  your  domestic  arrangements.  What  I  said 
was  impulsive,  and  I  am  sorry  for  it." 

Ferdinand's  face  showed  relief  and  appreciation.  He  was 
glad  to  have  the  subject  re-opened.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  glad  you  have  spoken  of  it  again.  Let  me  make  my 
position  clear  to  you.  I  have  a  pretty  fair  income,  but  I  am 
obliged  to  meet  many  demands  upon  it.  My  affairs  would 

168 


THE     BALLINGTONS  169 

not  be  in  their  present  condition  if  I  had  not  always  shown 
self-denial  and  system.  The  largest  income  in  the  world 
might  slip  through  the  fingers  of  a  careless  person  without 
his  knowing  where  it  had  gone." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  Agnes  commented  sympathetically. 

"  The  Ballingtons  as  a  family  have  a  constitutional  weak 
ness  in  this  way.  My  grandfather  died  a  pauper,  having 
wasted  a  fine  inheritance  from  his  mother.  He  left  his  chil 
dren  no  unencumbered  property.  It  was  the  invention  of  the 
car  spring  which  pulled  things  together." 

"  You  must  be  very  proud  of  your  father,"  Agnes  re 
turned. 

"  He  didn't  invent  it.  My  mother  did.  She  was  the  one 
who  held  things  together.  My  father  wasn't  worth  much 
more  than  Tom.  He  was  shiftless  and  a  drunkard." 

Agnes  started.  "  How  can  you  speak  so  of  your  father?  " 
she  asked  drawing  back  a  little. 

"  Why  should  I  hesitate  to  tell  the  truth  about  him?  From 
the  time  of  my  father's  death  until  I  came  into  the  business 
matters  were  slovenly  enough.  Uncle  Silas  did  better  than 
my  father,  but  he  was  no  manager.  Much  of  my  property — 
all  from  the  Landseer  side — is  invested  otherwise  than  in  the 
shops,  but  I  have  quite  an  interest  there." 

Agnes  was  quiet  for  some  time.  A  new  and  exquisite  hope 
was  dawning  within  her.  At  last  a  real  understanding  was 
arising  between  them  and  it  was  because  she  had  acted  like 
a  rational  being.  Money  suddenly  seemed  a  very  small  con 
sideration. 

It  was  with  an  effort  that  she  brought  herself  back  to  re 
spond  to  Ferdinand's  last  remark.  "  Donald  must  be  a  great 
help  to  you  in  managing  the  business,  Ferdinand." 

"  He  is  a  good  enough  office  man." 

Again  Agnes  felt  the  shock  of  Ferdinand's  downrightness. 

"How  about  Tom?    Is  he  no  help?  " 

"  No."  There  was  no  mistaking  the  contemptuous  dislike 
in  the  word.  "  He  might  have  done  better  to  make  his  gold 
salt-cellars." 


170  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Agnes  glanced  up  uneasily  at  her  husband's  face.  She 
was  reassured  by  the  care  and  responsibility  which  were 
apparent  there. 

"  Well,  I  will  try  to  be  a  help,  beloved,"  she  said  ear 
nestly,  putting  her  hand  over  his  on  the  railing.  "  I  know 
very  little  about  business,  but  I  will  learn." 

He  responded  to  her  touch  with  a  look  which  brought  the 
color  to  her  face.  Neither  of  them  spoke.  The  thin  notes  of 
a  zither  and  the  distant  barking  of  a  sheep-dog  baying  the 
moon  filled  the  pauses.  Laughter  and  snatches  of  song 
floated  up  vaguely  from  a  little  tavern  down  in  the  village. 
The  glimmering  lights  in  the  low,  flat-roofed  houses  and  the 
sounds-  aforesaid  were  the  only  things  in  all  the  world  of  blue 
heavens,  mountain  peaks,  glaciers,  precipices,  and  pine-gir 
dled  abysses,  down  which  the  wild  music  of  mountain  cata 
racts  plunged  and  was  lost,  which  related  it  to  the  infinitesi 
mal  day  of  man's  life  and  endeavor. 

"  Ferdinand,"  she  said  gently,  "  there's  something  I've 
wanted  to  speak  to  you  about  ever  since  we  have  been  mar 
ried." 

"  Why  have  you  waited  so  long  ?  "  he  replied  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  think  I've  been  afraid.  It's  always  been 
hard  for  me  to  talk  about  religion.  I  wish  you  would  talk  to 
me  about  it.  What  is  your  religion?  " 

Ferdinand  did  not  reply  at  once.  He  had  known  that  this 
conversation  must  come  some  time,  but  he  had  been  putting 
it  off,  feeling  that  the  time  was  not  yet  ripe.  Agnes'  reason 
ableness  in  coming  round  after  their  financial  difference 
decided  him,  however,  to  meet  her  inquiry  without  evasion. 

"  I  am  an  agnostic,"  he  said  quietly. 

Agnes  looked  at  him  steadily.  "  Do  you  mean,  Ferdinand, 
that  you  don't  believe  the  Bible  is  what  it  is  claimed  to  be? 
And  that  you  don't  know  whether  there's  a  God  or  not?  Do 
you  really  mean  that,  Ferdinand  ?  " 

Ferdinand  was  more  disturbed  by  the  anguish  in  her  voice 
than  he  would  have  believed  possible.  "  I  can't  help  believing 


THE     BALLINGTONS  171 

what  my  reason  tells  me,  Agnes.  You  wouldn't  have  me  do 
otherwise,  would  you  ?  " 

Agnes  took  her  hand  away  from  his.  "  Ferdinand,"  she 
said  in  an  unnatural  voice,  "  why  did  you  tell  my  mother  that 
you  were  confident  that  you  soon  would  think  as  I  did  on 
religion?  " 

"  I  didn't  tell  her  so,"  her  husband  replied.  He  knew  it 
was  coming  now. 

"You  did  not?" 

"  No.  I  said  I  was  confident  that  we  eventually  would 
think  alike;  and  I  am  still.  When  you  have  seen  enough  of 
the  world  you  will  broaden  out.  I  can  wait.  You  have  good 
mental  qualities,  and  I  shall  give  you  every  means  of  edu 
cation." 

Ferdinand  weighed  his  words.  He  was  prepared  for  an 
outburst.  It  would  be  a  shock  to  Agnes  to  realize  that  he 
had  misled  her  mother  and  herself. 

The  indignation  did  not  come,  however,  as  he  had  expected. 
On  the  contrary  Agnes  turned  white,  and  when  she  spoke*  her 
voice  was  low  and  there  was  a  note  in  it  which  alarmed  him. 
"  You  deceived  my  mother,  then.  You  deliberately  let  her 
think  you  meant  one  thing  when  you  meant  something  which 
would  have  broken  her  heart." 

Ferdinand,  too,  grew  pale.  "Yes,  I  let  her  believe  one 
thing  while  I  meant  another,"  he  answered,  "  and  I  would  do 
so  again.  I  can't  accept  Christianity.  It  would  be  equally 
impossible  for  your  mother  at  her  time  of  life  to  modify  her 
views.  Neither  of  us  is  accountable  to  the  other,  and  my 
course  of  action  saved  us  all  three  much  unpleasantness." 

"  But  do  you  think  there  will  be  less  unpleasantness  when 
she  finds  out  that  you  deceived  her?  " 

"  1  shall  not  undeceive  her.  You  may  do  as  you  think 
best." 

As  she  did  not  speak,  he  said  again,  "  I  foresaw  that  the 
struggle  would  come  upon  you.  You  would  either  be  obliged 
to  go  against  your  mother,  or  to  give  me  up,  and  I  wished  to 
prevent  a  family  rupture." 


172 

He  wondered  from  her  continued  silence  if  she  understood 
just  what  he  had  been  saying  and  all  that  he  had  spared  her. 
And  he  repeated,  "  You  see  you  would  have  had  to  choose 
between  your  mother  and  me,  and  it  would  have  resulted  in 
your  never  having  easy  relations  with  your  mother  after 
wards."  ?  r 

He  need  not  have  reiterated  the  words.  She  was  realizing 
with  a  kind  of  moral  shock  that  the  whole  question  in  Ferdi 
nand's  mind  had  been  how  to  conciliate  her  mother;  that  he 
had  contemplated  no  difficulty  or  struggle  with  her  own  con 
science;  nay,  he  had  ignored  her  conscience  as  if  she  had 
none;  and  he  never  once  had  considered  it  remotely  possible 
that  she  would  have  given  up  him  if  the  choice  had  rested 
upon  her. 

At  length  she  looked  up  and  spoke.  "  Perhaps  you  were 
right  about  me.  I  find  that  I  am  glad  you  did  not  put  the 
choice  upon  me." 

This  was  the  sentiment  upon  which  Ferdinand  had  counted, 
but 'there  was  a  sub-meaning  along  with  it  which  made  him 
uneasy. 

When  he  would  have  drawn  nearer  to  caress  her  she  still 
held  off.  "  Yes,  I'm  glad,"  she  repeated,  leaving  an  empha 
sis  of  scorn  on  the  final  word,  which  she  spoke  so  low  that  he 
caught  the  scorn  more  clearly  than  the  significance  of  the 
word  itself,  "  and  yet  I  did  have  some  conscience.  I  faced 
that  very  question,  and  I  found  that  I  could  make  the  sacri 
fice.  More  than  that,  Ferdinand,  I  surely  would  have  made 
it.  My  mother  will  remember." 

She  stopped  speaking,  but  he  could  see  that  she  was  fol 
lowing  out  some  line  of  thought. 

After  a  few  moments  he  resumed,  "  Besides,  Agnes,  I  knew 
that  your  views  were  bound  to  change,  and  if  you  regard 
yourself  closely  you  will  see  that  you  have  changed  considera 
bly  already.  I  have  watched  your  progress  with  great  in 
terest  and  satisfaction.  When  we  were  first  married  you 
never  would  have  taken  this  ride  with  me  on  Sunday.  Now 
you " 


THE    BALLINGTONS  173 

His  wife  turned  suddenly  and  went  into  her  room. 

When  he  followed  her  he  found  her  sobbing  on  the  bed. 
He  stood  looking  down  at  her,  utterly  at  a  loss  what  to  do. 
"  Why  do  you  cry,  Agnes  ?  "  he  asked  uncomfortably. 

She  did  not  answer,  and  he  sat  down  by  her  and  put  out  his 
hand  to  stroke  her  hair. 

Gradually  her  shame  and  wretchedness  came  under  control. 
Her  regret  at  having  taken  the  ride  began  to  fade  before 
the  memory  of  the  Sabbath  stillness  of  the  mountains  and  the 
influence  that  had  brooded  over  their  own  spirits  all  day. 
Then,  too,  she  was  Ferdinand's  wife  now.  Past  deceit  could 
not  be  helped.  What  concerned  them  was  to  see  that  there 
should  be  no  more.  She  felt  the  need  of  spiritual  help  for 
the  future. 

"  Ferdinand,"  she  asked,  with  a  last  effort,  "  do  you  ever 
pray  ?  " 

There  was  a  moment's  hesitation.    Then  he  replied,  "  No." 

"  Won't  you— with  me?  " 

Ferdinand's  voice  was  uncertain  as  he  answered,  "  It  would 
be  hypocrisy  for  me  to  do  so." 

"  Won't  you  try?    If  you  love  me,  do." 

Ferdinand  was  thoroughly  unhappy.  She  seemed  like  a 
child  imploring  him  to  search  with  her  for  a  pot  of  gold  in 
a  rainbow.  It  was  contrary  to  his  nature  to  allow  misunder 
standing  under  such  circumstances.  When  Agnes  was  yet 
to  be  won  she  was  to  be  approached  cautiously,  but  once  his 
wife  the  sooner  she  accommodated  herself  to  the  situation  the 
better.  Yet  he  was  almost  disheartened  as  he  took  his  hand 
from  her  hair  and  answered  briefly,  "  I  cannot." 

She  was  so  lovely  as  she  looked  up  at  him  with  hurt  eyes 
and  with  the  baffled  pleading  in  her  face  that  he  could  not 
leave  her  so.  "  Agnes,  be  content  with  my  love,"  he  said 
with  feeling.  "  You  will  understand  me  better  in  time." 

As  he  left  her  and  went  into  his  room  his  last  words,  with 
their  assurance  of  present  love  and  of  future  understanding, 
fell  upon  her  tortured  spirit  like  a  benediction.  "  Better  to 
know  it  all.  Better  so,"  she  thought  in  mingled  grief  and 


174  THE    BALLINGTONS 

devotion.  Then  the  solemnity  of  what  was  laid  upon  her 
deepened  as  the  night  hours  passed.  She  faced  the  convic 
tion  that  she  must  live  her  spiritual  life  alone,  and  live  it  so 
that  he  who  now  was  part  of  her  must  be  brought  into  sym 
pathy  with  it.  How  easily  she  had  accepted  nominal  Chris 
tianity  from  her  parents  as  a  girl !  How  dependently  she  had 
looked  to  her  husband  to  support  her  in  her  higher  life !  It 
was  made  plain  to  her  at  last  that  every  man  liveth  to  him 
self.  Her  inner  experience  must  be  an  individual  one.  What 
did  it  mean  to  be  a  Christian  ?  She  must  find  that  out  for  her 
self.  The  horror  of  her  husband's  repudiating  Christianity 
was  clearer  than  her  understanding  of  just  what  he  had  re 
pudiated.  It  was  not  riding  on  Sunday,  or  drinking  wine, 
or  going  to  the  theater,  or  any  of  the  gradually  accepted 
customs  which  at  first  she  had  reproved.  In  these  she  had 
changed.  Could  it  be  possible  that  she  would  keep  on  chang 
ing,  as  he  said?  Agnes'  anxiety  gradually  lessened  as  she 
recollected  his  words.  "  I  can  wait.  Be  content  with  my 
love.  You  will  understand  me  better  in  time."  He,  too,  had 
been  waiting  for  sympathy  and  comprehension  as  she  had 
been,  but  he  had  waited  patiently  and  silently.  She  was  as 
unfit  to  meet  his  demands  as  he  had  been  to  meet  hers.  He, 
too,  had  much  to  offer  which  always  had  been  outside  her 
ken — business  discernment,  scientific  discipline,  organized 
and  focused  energies.  If  she  could  prove  to  him  that  her 
great  heritage  was  worthy  his  consideration  while  she  ac 
cepted  his,  what  unity  and  power  and  happiness  they  might 
attain !  This,  perhaps,  was  what  God  had  meant  in  bringing 
them  together. 

Occasional  conversations  like  this  stood  out  in  Agnes' 
memory  as  marking  successive  shocks  of  mutual  readjust 
ment,  after  which  they  would  go  on  for  a  time  without  fric 
tion.  It  was  when  they  reached  England  some  weeks  later 
that  she  saw  the  extent  of  the  change  in  their  attitude 
toward  each  other.  She  found  herself  looking  with  different 
and  older  eyes  upon  the  scenes  she  had  witnessed  five  months 
before.  Then  everything  had  been  a  background  for  Ferdi- 


THE    BALLINGTONS  175 

nand.  It  was  so  no  longer.  A  hunger  for  wider  vision,  for 
clearer  understanding  of  the  world  about  her,  had  awakened 
within  her.  The  mind  had  thrown  off  the  shackles  of  pas 
sion,  and  she  realized  she  was  leaving  Europe  just  at  the  point 
when  she  could  appreciate  her  advantages.  She  had  learned 
to  discriminate  and  enjoy. 

A  foreboding  weighed  upon  her  spirit  as  she  saw  England 
sink  below  the  horizon  into  the  Atlantic.  Would  it  always  be 
so?  Would  she  learn  to  value  the  greatest  things  in  her  life 
only  as  she  parted  from  them?  So  her  college  life  had  slipped 
away  from  her,  her  father;  her  mother's  encircling  devotion, 
this  last  Renaissance  with  its  rich  opportunities.  What 
would  be  next? 


CHAPTER   IV 

*  4F)O  J°u  tnink  tne  table  l°oks  a11  right,  Sarah?  " 

Miss  Margaret  Ballington  daintily  drew  back  from 
the  antique  epergne  which  she  had  been  adorning  with  sprays 
from  her  fuchsia  plants  and  looked  up  hopefully. 

"  Elegant,"  said  Mrs.  Ballington  approvingly. 

Miss  Margaret  drew  a  breath  of  relief.  The  next  moment 
she  glanced  back  at  the  table,  this  time  at  the  candelabra, 
and  asked  with  increasing  uneasiness  in  each  phrase,  "  Is 
that  shade  a  little  crooked?  Will  you  please  straighten  it, 
Tom?  Be  careful  that  your  cuff  doesn't  catch  in  the  flowers, 
dear.  Is  that  a  carriage  I  hear?  Shall  I  serve  the  salad 
with  the  oysters  or  in  a  course  by  itself?  Which  would  you, 
Tom?" 

"  Both,"  said  Tom  promptly,  narrowly  escaping  a  decanter 
with  his  elbow. 

A  momentary  color  passed  like  a  shadow  of  youth  over 
his  aunt's  face.  "Don't  joke  me,  dear.  They'll  be  here 
before  I  can  decide.  Which  would  you  do,  Sarah?  " 

As  Mrs.  Ballington  was  arranging  herself  to  reply,  for 
the  sequence  of  salad  and  oysters  was  not  a  thing  to  be 
disposed  of  flippantly,  the  dining-room  door  was  opened  and 
a  large  woman  of  forty  or  upwards,  with  red  hair  and  little 
despotic  gray  eyes,  appeared  on  the  threshold  and  stood  with 
her  hands  on  her  hips,  nodding  at  the  long  table,  "  Shall  I 
put  on  that  loaf  of  mate,  Miss  Margaret  ?  It'll  want  cooking 
the  long  half  of  an  hour." 

"  Not  just  yet.  Not  right  away,  Eliza,"  her  mistress 
fluttered.  "  Isn't  that  Ferdinand's  step  I  hear  on  the  walk  ?  " 
Miss  Ballington  rustled  to  the  hall  door,  opened  it  and 
listened. 

"  You  sit  down,  Aunt  Maggie.     I'll  watch  for  the  car- 

176 


177 

riage,"  said  Tom.  He  moved  a  chair  where  Miss  Ballington 
was  standing,  lifted  the  little  woman  up  as  he  spoke  and, 
after  having  smoothed  down  her  skirts  as  though  she  were 
an  infant  in  long  clothes,  seated  her  in  it. 

"Tom!     Be  careful,  Tom!" 

Tom  gave  her  an  affectionate  pat,  released  her  and  turned 
to  the  servant.  "  Get  back  to  your  den,  Eliza.  How  do 
you  know  what  that  meat's  doing  ?  " 

"  And  oh,  Eliza ! "  Miss  Margaret  sprang  to  her  feet 
again.  "  Hadn't  you  better — will  you  please  put  a  clean 
apron  on  ?  " 

The  Irishwoman  glanced  carelessly  down.  "This  apron 
is  clane,"  she  said  aggressively. 

"  But  I'd  a  little  rather — you  know  Mr.  Ferdinand  likes 
everything  neat.  You  can  have  my  little  apron  with  the 
clover  blossoms  on  it.  You'll  find  it  in  the  second  drawer  of 
my  bureau  in  the  pile  on  the  left-hand  side,  a  little  back. 

Be  careful  not  to "  Eliza  disappeared  and  closed  the 

door  before  the  sentence  was  finished. 

Mrs.  Ballington  looked  after  her  with  indignation  right 
eously  thrilling  every  nerve  in  her  body.  "  Margaret !  "  she 
proclaimed,  "you  ruin  your  servants.  Sam  is  utterly 
spoiled.  He  won't  mow  our  grass  since  Ferdinand  went 
away  without  an  extra  fee." 

"I  know  I  do,  Sarah,"  said  Miss  Margaret  miserably. 
"  I  wouldn't  have  given  that — but  there !  "  She  listened 
breathlessly  like  a  startled  deer.  "Do  you  hear  anything, 
Tom?" 

"  I  think  I  do,"  said  Tom  resignedly. 

Mrs.  Ballington  walked  before  the  long  mirror  at 
the  end  of  the  room,  where  she  turned  slowly,  eyeing  her 
self.  Miss  Margaret  sat  down  suddenly  in  her  chair.  Tom 
was  about  to  open  the  hall  door,  when  the  kitchen  door  flew 
open  and  Eliza,  with  face  aflame,  strode  through  the  room  and 
into  the  hall  before  him.  She  threw  the  front  door  open 
wide,  and  was  the  first  to  greet  Agnes  Ballington  as  she 
walked  up  the  steps  between  Ferdinand  and  Donald. 


178  THE     BALLINGTONS 

"  Welcome  home  to  yez,  Mr.  Ballington ! "  cried  Eliza, 
her  face  beaming,  "  an'  welcome  to  your  swate  young  wife ! " 
She  opened  her  big  arms,  gave  Agnes  a  hug,  then  stepped 
back  and  nodded  critically  at  the  bride. 

Agnes  smiled  and  straightened  her  drooping  hat  as  she 
returned  the  old  servant's  welcome.  After  greetings  from 
Tom,  the  party  entered  the  house. 

Ferdinand  set  the  luggage  down  in  the  hall  and  opened 
the  door  into  the  green  parlor.  "  Come  in  here,  Agnes,"  he 
said.  "  Aunt  Margaret  will  be  here  presently." 

"  She  wants  to  see  you  alone  first.  She's  in  the  dining- 
room,"  whispered  Tom.  "  I'll  go  in  with  your  wife.  Mother 
is  here  in  the  parlor." 

Agnes  already  had  seen  Mrs.  Silas  Ballington,  and  she 
was  so  occupied  with  that  lady's  somewhat  distant  greeting 
that  she  did  not  notice  her  husband's  annoyed  expression 
and  subsequent  disappearance.  She  glanced  eagerly  around 
the  room,  noting  for  the  first  time  the  interior  of  her  new 
home.  There  was  something  attractive  and  something  repel 
lent  in  the  formal  arrangement  of  pictures  and  green  rep 
mahogany  furniture.  It  was  a  handsome  apartment,  but  cold 
and  austere.  Agnes  felt  like  an  alien  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  one  of  the  big  pieces  and  looking  up  to  meet  the  still 
gray  eyes  of  Estelle  Landseer,  Ferdinand's  mother,  looking 
down  from  the  gold  frame  on  the  wall  over  the  green  lounge. 
She  returned  Mrs.  Ballington's  greeting  mechanically.  "  It 
was  very  kind  in  you  to  welcome  us  home,  Mrs.  Ballington," 
she  said,  her  eyes  still  resting  on  the  portrait.  She  traced 
Ferdinand's  features  in  the  grave  face.  There  was  some 
thing  ascetic,  something  despotic,  in  the  expression,  and, 
along  with  these,  something  inscrutable.  Agnes  found  her 
self  trying  to  interpret  it  by  Ferdinand's  face,  and  failing. 
It  seemed  to  her  as  though  her  husband's  mother  were  passing 
her  in  review,  challenging  her  strength,  questioning  her  wis 
dom,  warning  her  of  the  stubborn  and  masterful  spirit  whose 
home  she  had  entered.  "  He  is  my  son,"  Agnes  almost  heard 
her  say.  "  Are  you  equal  to  it?  " 


THE     BALLINGTONS  179 

"I'm  sure  I'm  delighted,"  said  the  once-admired  society 
voice  of  Mrs.  Silas  Ballington. 

Agnes  started,  trying  to  remember  what  Mrs.  Ballington 
was  delighted  about.  Her  interest  in  the  picture,  however, 
overtopped  everything  else.  She  pointed  to  it.  "What  a 
remarkable  face !  And  she  actually  invented  the  car  spring !  " 

If  Agnes  had  cast  about  her  for  a  long  time  she  could  not 
have  searched  out  a  more  infuriating  remark.  Mrs.  Silas 
drew  herself  up  and  darted  a  poisonous  glance  at  the  new 
and  unwelcome  addition  to  the  family. 

Agnes  interpreted  it  as  a  reproach  for  failing  to  under 
stand  her  new  aunt's  last  remark,  and  she  hastened  to  atone. 
"  It  was  so  nice  to  see  Donald  at  the  station,"  she  said.  "  We 
hardly  expected  such  a  home-coming." 

The  moment  it  was  out  she  realized  that  she  had  made 
matters  worse. 

At  that  instant  Tom  came  in  from  the  hall,  saw  that  some 
thing  was  wrong,  as  usual,  with  his  mother,  and  promptly 
went  up  to  Agnes  and  kissed  her. 

"  Tom ! "  exclaimed  his  mother ;  then  grandiloquently  to 
Agnes,  "  You  must  excuse  my  son,  Mrs.  Ballington." 

"  I  wish  you  would  call  me  '  Agnes,'  "  said  the  bride,  try 
ing  to  smile,  but  feeling  like  crying. 

"  With  pleasure,"  Tom  answered  immediately,  and  he 
looked  around  at  the  chairs.  "  Which  one  do  you  advise  me 
to  sit  in,  mother?"  he  asked,  with  interest. 

The  dowager  was  casting  a  withering  glance  at  her  son, 
when  the  dining-room  door  was  opened,  and  Ferdinand,  still 
in  his  ulster,  entered  with  his  aunt.  She  wore  a  flowered  silk 
of  mild  shades,  with  tiny  pink  bows  sprinkled  over  it,  and 
she  looked  to  Agnes  like  a  little  Dresden  figure  come  to  life. 

"This  is  my  wife,  Aunt  Margaret,"  said  Ferdinand. 

Agnes  rose  and  came  forward,  smiling  with  genuine 
pleasure. 

Miss  Margaret  gave  a  little  gasp,  then  held  out  both  hands, 
and  lifted  her  face  to  be  kissed.  She  kept  hold  of  one  hand 
as  she  said,  "  Come,  dear,  I  will  take  you  upstairs.  Your 


180  THE     BALLINGTONS 

room  is  all  ready,  Ferdinand.  There's  a  little  fire  in  the 
grate." 

She  fluttered  into  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs,  still  leading 
Agnes,  who  felt  clumsy  and  stiff  beside  her. 

They  went  into  a  roomy  apartment  which  was  dressed 
sedately  in  old-fashioned  watered  silk.  A  gilt  mirror  hung 
against  the  wall,  and  this  was  draped  with  fresh  muslin. 
There  were  flowers  on  the  table,  a  tray  containing  a  glass 
of  cracked  ice,  and  a  small  champagne  bottle. 

Miss  Ballington  closed  the  door,  went  up  to  Agnes,  looked 
at  her  with  a  timid  smile,  kissed  her,  said,  "  Will  you  love  me 
a  little,  dear?  "  and  kissed  her  again. 

"  Yes,  I  love  you  already,"  answered  Agnes,  laughing  in 
some  embarrassment,  yet  altogether  charmed  with  her  hus 
band's  aunt. 

"You  dear  child.  I  shall  try  to  make  you  happy,  dear. 
You  will  love  me,  won't  you?  You  know  there's  nobody 
I  love  quite  as  I  do  Ferdinand.  He's  all  I  have.  You  wouldn't 
want  him  not  to  love  me,  would  you?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  replied  Agnes,  still  smiling. 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't.  I  knew  you  would  add  your  sweet 
love  to  his.  I  won't  find  him  changed,  do  you  think  ?  "  The 
last  sentence  caught  Agnes'  attention  with  its  child-like 
pathos. 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  she  said  gently. 

"  And  I  shall  call  you  '  Agnes  '  right  away.  You  want 
me  to,  don't  you?  And  you  will  call  me  'Aunt  Margaret,' 
just  as  Ferdinand  does?"  continued  the  little  lady.  She 
always  spoke  rapidly,  and  excitement  now  made  her  almost 
unintelligible. 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  said  Agnes  heartily. 

"Call  me  so  now,  dear.  Will  you,  dear?  "  and  Miss  Mar 
garet  looked  up  tenderly  at  her  new  niece. 

"Why,  yes — Aunt  Margaret,"  answered  Agnes,  wishing 
her  aunt  would  give  her  some  natural  excuse  for  saying  '  Aunt 
Margaret.' 

Something   in    her    manner    may    have    conveyed    Agnes' 


THE    BALLINGTONS  181 

awkwardness  to  Miss  Ballington,  for  the  latter  turned  away 
from  her  guest  and  tripped  across  the  room  to  look  into  the 
water  pitcher.  Then  she  went  out  into  the  hall  and  closed 
the  door  behind  her  softly. 

"  Oh,  Agnes  dear,"  she  called  through  the  keyhole. 

"  Yes  ?  "  asked  Agnes,  opening  the  door  again. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  disturb  you,  dear.  You  needn't  have 
opened  the  door.  I  just  wanted  to  ask  if  I  could  do  anything 
else  for  you." 

"  No,  I  thank  you,"  said  Agnes  in  a  daze. 

"  And  shall  I  have  dinner  served  soon  ?  " 

"  I  shall  be  ready  in  ten  minutes."  And  Agnes  recovered 
her  senses  briskly. 

"  Very  well,  dear.  Don't  hurry,"  and  light  little  steps 
went  down  the  stairs. 

Agnes  hastened  to  change  her  traveling  dress  for  a  coral- 
colored  silk  which  her  mother  had  made.  It  had  been  the 
best  dress  of  her  trousseau,  and  she  still  preferred  it  to  the 
more  elaborate  gowns  her  husband  had  given  her  since.  She 
was  just  finishing  when  Ferdinand  knocked  and  entered  the 
room. 

They  went  down  together  and  met  the  others  in  the  draw 
ing-room,  from  which  they  all  passed  on  to  the  dining- 
room,  Ferdinand  still  keeping  by  his  wife's  side. 

Miss  Ballington  previously  had  considered  whether  she 
should  offer  Agnes  the  head  of  the  table  at  once,  and  had  con 
cluded  it  would  be  better  to  make  the  change  later  in  pri 
vate.  Now,  however,  she  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in 
embarrassment. 

Tom,  perceiving  the  emergency,  slipped  into  Ferdinand's 
place  and  said  to  the  latter  with  a  flourish  of  his  hand, 
"  Above  the  salt,  Mr.  Ballington.  Take  your  seat  there. 
To-morrow  Mrs.  Ballington  and  you  may  take  possession, 
but  to-night  you  are  the  distinguished  guests  of  Miss  Mar 
garet  and  Mr.  Thomas  Ballington."  Tom's  annoyance  with 
the  situation  gave  place  to  good-humored  mischief  as  he  took 
his  place  at  the  head  of  Ferdinand's  table. 


182  THE     BALLINGTONS 

Ferdinand's  ghost-smile  hovered  around  his  lips  as  he 
seated  himself  beside  Agnes. 

The  burden  of  conversation  fell  upon  Tom.  He  addressed 
himself  especially  to  Agnes,  whom  everyone  was  watching. 
She  had  changed  somewhat  during  the  short  absence,  was 
a  little  fuller  in  figure,  had  grown  into  a  quieter  manner, 
a  greater  reserve  in  speech,  and  a  noticeable  courtesy  in  listen 
ing.  In  repose  there  was  a  luminousness  in  her  dark  eyes 
which  marked  a  growing  likeness  to  Dr.  Sidney;  and  when 
she  became  animated  a  radiance  of  expression  flushed  her 
face  with  delicate  color.  Altogether  she  was  a  richer  and 
quieter  figure  than  the  girl  Tom  remembered. 

Miss  Margaret  Ballington's  surprise  and  delight  in  her 
nephew's  wife  became  more  and  more  evident.  Happiness 
transformed  her.  She  seemed  years  younger  than  when  she 
had  listened  for  the  carriage  wheels,  while  the  nervousness 
of  elation  had  driven  out  and  replaced  in  her  always  appre 
hensive  little  body  the  nervousness  of  foreboding. 

"I  presume  you  fully  appreciate  the  fact  that  you  suc 
cessfully  passed  Minos  in  the  hall,  Agnes,"  said  Tom  when 
conversation  lulled  a  moment. 

Agnes  turned  to  him  with  a  tinge  of  diffidence  in  her 
manner. 

"  He  means  Eliza,"  explained  Ferdinand. 

"  The  proprietress  of  the  establishment,"  continued  Tom 
impressively.  "  The  Proserpine  of  the  kitchen.  Let  me  give 
you  a  word  of  advice,  Agnes.  Eliza  has  all  the  rest  of  us 
under  her  thumb.  Unless  you  start  out  by  putting  her  down, 
the  Ballington  family  is  doomed." 

As  if  the  reference  to  Eliza  had  summoned  that  person, 
she  appeared  at  this  instant,  displaying  a  blur  of  tomato 
juice  on  Miss  Margaret's  apron,  and  nodding  approvingly 
at  Agnes  across  the  room. 

"  Yez  hev  struck  luck,  Mrs.  Ballington,"  she  said,  tilting 
her  horse-like  head  to  one  side  as  she  included  Ferdinand  in 
the  next  nod.  "  Mr.  Ferdinand  is  the  prime  pet  of  fortune, 
sure." 


THE     BALLINGTONS  183 

"  We  think  Mrs.  .Ballington  is  a  pet  of  fortune,  too, 
Eliza,"  put  in  Donald. 

"  Thin  two  pets  have  met,"  rejoined  the  red-haired  woman 
promptly.  "  Did  ye  see  Ireland  on  the  other  side,  Mr. 
Ferdinand?" 

"  We  are  waiting  for  the  salad,  Eliza,"  suggested  Miss 
Margaret. 

The  cook  shrugged  her  shoulders  with  a  side  look  at  Agnes 
in  reply,  and  went  back  to  the  kitchen. 

"  You're  on  the  right  side  of  Eliza,"  Tom  exclaimed  when 
the  door  closed.  "  Now  let  time  and  tide  work  their  will." 

When  they  went  back  to  the  drawing-room  Miss  Mar 
garet  drew  Agnes  to  her  side  on  the  lounge  and  pressed  the 
girl's  hand  impulsively.  "  You  dear,  dear  child,"  she 
whispered. 

Agnes  blushed  and  tried  to  return  the  pressure,  but  Miss 
Margaret's  demonstration  embarrassed  her.  She  diverted 
herself  by  talking  a  little  to  Mrs.  Ballington  and  wondering 
that  she  no  longer  was  impressed  by  that  lady's  lofty 
bearing. 

"  Won't  you  favor  us  with  a  song?  "  asked  Mrs.  Balling- 
ton,  at  length. 

"  Agnes  is  too  tired  to  sing,"  interrupted  Ferdinand. 

"  We  ought  to  be  going,  Tom,"  said  Donald,  rising.  "  We 
mustn't  stay  too  late  the  first  night.  John  will  be  here  for 
you  shortly,  mother." 

The  brothers  said  good-night,  shook  hands  with  Agnes  and 
left  the  house  together. 

Soon  afterwards  the  carriage  came  for  Mrs.  Ballington. 
As  she  was  departing  she  drew  Miss  Margaret  outside  and 
whispered  something  in  her  ear  which  brought  a  startled 
exclamation  to  Miss  Margaret's  lips.  When  the  latter  re 
turned  to  the  parlor  there  were  signs  of  confusion  in  her 
face  and  manner. 

"You  must  be  very  tired,  dear,"  she  said  effusively  to 
Agnes.  "  Is  there  anything  you  would  like  ?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  Aunt  Margaret.     I  have  just  told  Fer- 


184  THE    BALLINGTONS 

dinand  I  think  I  will  go  to  my  room.  Thank  you  so  much 
for  your  kind  reception."  Agnes  turned  to  the  door  as 
she  spoke. 

"Thank  you,  dear  child.  Will  you  kiss  me  good-night? 
Good-night.  Sleep  well,  dear." 

After  Agnes  had  left  them  Ferdinand  turned  to  his  aunt. 
"  I  noticed  the  lawn  has  not  been  cut  back  of  the  house," 
he  said  questioningly. 

"No,  Ferdinand,"  said  Miss  Ballington,  at  once  on  the 
defensive  and  voluble  with  excuses,  "  Sam  has  been  very  un 
reasonable — very.  I've  had  to  raise  his  wages,  too."  She 
sighed.  "  He  was  going  to  leave,  dear.  Don't  you  think 
I  did  right  to  raise  his  wages?  Are  you  offended  with  me, 
Ferdinand?" 

"  No.  I  knew  when  I  left  you,  you  couldn't  manage  the 
place,"  returned  her  nephew  philosophically. 

"  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  replied  at  once,  on  the  verge  of  tears. 
"  I  really  tried,  dear." 

Ferdinand  hastened  to  change  the  subject.  "  Are  the 
accounts  at  hand  ?  "  he  inquired,  not  noticing  her  half  tear 
ful  lament. 

"  Yes,  dearest.    Right  here.     I  have  them  all  ready." 

She  hurried  across  the  room,  opened  a  tiny  drawer  in  the 
inlaid  cabinet,  and  returned  with  a  small  leather  book. 

"  I  have  told  Agnes  you  had  better  continue  the  manage 
ment  of  the  house  for  the  remainder  of  the  year,"  said  Fer 
dinand  before  opening  the  notebook.  "  Then  she  can  begin 
the  first  of  January." 

"Yes,  dearest.  Very  well,"  responded  Miss  Ballington 
with  a  gleam  of  hope. 

She  stood  behind  his  chair,  and  caressed  his  hair,  occa 
sionally  leaning  down  to  bestow  a  kiss  upon  it.  Presently  he 
stirred,  moved  his  head  restlessly.  The  patting  ceased  a 
moment,  then  began  again. 

"  You'll  tire  yourself,"  he  said,  pausing  at  length  in  his 
reading  and  moving  his  chair  to  one  side.  "  Sit  down, 
Aunt  Margaret." 


THE     BALLINGTONS  185 

"  No,  you  sweet  dear.  I  love  to  stand  here."  She  laid  her 
faded  hair  alongside  his  dark  head.  "  It's  so  good  to  have 
you  here,  dear !  I've  missed  jou  so !  " 

Ferdinand  arose,  walked  to  the  center  of  the  room  and  stood 
under  the  hanging  lamp.  His  aunt's  caresses  worried  him, 
as  they  had  done  ever  since  he  was  old  enough  to  run  away 
from  her. 

"  This  isn't  added  correctly,"  he  said. 

"  Isn't  it,  dear?  Are  you  sure  it  isn't?  "  asked  Miss  Bal- 
lington,  her  attention  instantly  diverted  to  her  perennial 
source  of  worry,  the  balancing  of  accounts.  "  I  went  over 
it  eight  times.  You  see  there's  nine  cents  unaccounted  for. 
I  don't  know.  I'm  not  sure  but  that  cabbage  that's  down — 
in  August  somewhere — I've  got  it  underlined — there  it  is — 
that  cabbage  may  have  been  four  cents  instead  of  two.  I'm 
not  just  sure.  That  would  account  for  two  cents." 

"The  fault  is  in  the  adding,"  Ferdinand  said,  returning 
the  book.  "  The  expenditure  adds  to  nine  cents  more  than 
you  make  it.  You  have  about  thirty  dollars  on  hand,  I  see." 

"  Yes,  dear,"  said  Miss  Margaret  with  pride  in  her  thrift. 

"  You  have  done  very  well.  It's  remarkable  what  method 
the  most  unsystematic  women  may  acquire  under  training. 
You  may  have  the  balance." 

"  Have  the  thirty  dollars !  Do  you  mean  without  keeping 
an  account  of  it,  Ferdinand  ?  "  gasped  his  aunt. 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  dear.  Th  ere  are  some "  She  hastily 

checked  her  inopportune  disclosures.  "  Thank  you  very 
much." 

"  Good-night.  We  have  breakfast  at  the  usual  time?  " 
Ferdinand  asked  as  a  matter  of  form. 

"  Yes,  yes.  You  wouldn't  like  it  changed,  would  you,  dear 
est?  "  said  Miss  Margaret,  on  the  look-out  for  new  afflictions 
with  Eliza. 

"  No,"  said  Ferdinand  indifferently. 

"  Ferdinand !  "  she  exclaimed,  suddenly  forgetting  break 
fast  and  Eliza. 


186  THE    BALLINGTONS 

He  had  reached  the  door,  but  he  turned  at  her  ejaculation. 

"  You  aren't  angry  with  me,  are  you,  dear?  "  she  inter 
rupted  herself  to  ask  anxiously. 

"  Certainly  not." 

"Won't  you  kiss  me  good-night?"  she  persisted,  ap 
proaching  him  hesitatingly. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"  This  doesn't  make  any  difference,  does  it,  Ferdinand  ? 
She  won't  come  between  us,  will  she,  dear?  You  were  such  a 
dear  little  baby,  Ferdinand.  You'll  always  be  my  baby,  you 
know.  I  think  she's  lovely,  lovely.  And  she  says  she  loves 
me,  loves  me  already.  She  doesn't  brush  her  hair  quite  up  in 
the  neck.  But  that  doesn't  matter.  I  love  her  dearly." 

She  clung  to  him  as  the  disjointed  sentences  came  out. 
He  indulgently  disengaged  her  arms,  turned,  and  went  up 
the  stairs. 

Five  minutes  later  she  tapped  at  his  door. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  disturb  you,  dearest.  I  just  wanted  to 
ask  if  everything  is  all  right.  There's  a  fresh  cake  of  soap 
in  the  dish,  isn't  there?  " 

"  I  have  my  own."  The  voice  came  through  the  closed 
door  patiently. 

"Ferdinand!" 

After  an  instant's  hesitation  the  door  was  open  and  he 
stood  once  more  looking  down  at  her. 

She  flushed  consciously,  looked  down  at  her  hands  and 
smiled  a  very  little,  then  looked  up  wistfully. 

"  Yes  ?  "  inquired  Ferdinand,  waiting. 

"  There  isn't  anything  you'd  like  to  tell  me,  is  there, 
dearest?  " 

Ferdinand  was  puzzled.  "  Tell  you  ?  I  think  not,"  he 
said. 

"  I  mean  any  little  confidence.  I'm  like  your  mother,  you 
know,  dear." 

She  looked  up  at  him  half  expectantly. 

"  There  is  nothing,"  he  replied  briefly. 

She  took  alarm  at  once.     "  Oh !    Good-night.     You  aren't 


THE    BALLINGTONS  18? 

angry  with  me  for  asking,  are  you  ?  I  only  asked  from  inter 
est,  dearest,  the  most  loving  interest.  Good-night." 

His  door  closed.  Miss  Margaret  walked  down  the  hall  a 
little,  hesitated,  turned  back  and  approached  his  door,  then 
paused  again  and  turned  resolutely  to  her  own  room. 

Just  then  she  heard  Eliza's  heavy  step  going  up  the  back 
stairs.  She  leaned  over  the  banisters.  "  Eliza  didn't  turn 
out  the  lights  or  lock  up,  again,"  she  said  to  herself,  putting 
her  hand  up  to  her  head.  "  Oh,  dear !  Oh,  dear !  I  must  go 
down." 

Then  the  tired  little  feet  went  down  the  stairs,  and  through 
the  long  halls.  She  locked  the  doors,  stood  up  on  the  chairs 
to  fasten  the  windows,  paused  in  the  green  room  to  kiss  a 
baby  miniature  of  Ferdinand,  and  turned  out  the  lights. 
Then  she  climbed  the  staircase  in  the  dark  and  felt  her  way 
to  her  own  room,  where  she  undressed  and  cried  herself  to 
sleep. 


CHAPTER  V 

A  FTER  Donald  and  Tom  left  Ferdinand's  home  on  the 
*:*  night  of  their  cousin's  return,  they  started  on  their 
homeward  way  in  silence.  It  was  not  until  they  passed  the 
border-line  of  their  cousin's  property  that  Tom  thrust  his 
hands  into  his  pockets  and  spoke  abruptly,  "  Oh,  hell !  " 

"  You  did  splendidly  to-night,  Tom,"  answered  Donald, 
ignoring  the  ejaculation;  "  the  evening  would  have  been  very 
trying  without  you." 

"  Yes,  I  saw  that.  Now,  you  don't  get  me  to  go  near  his 
house  again.  Down  in  the  office  I  don't  care  a  damn." 

"  Agnes  looked  very  beautiful,"  continued  Donald  thought 
fully,  still  without  heeding  his  brother's  ill-temper. 

"  You're  right,  she  did,"  Tom  agreed.  "  The  green  parlor 
made  me  think  of  the  sea,  and  she  of  that  spray  of  coral  in 
the  cabinet  that  Uncle  Tom  gave  me  when  I  was  a  baby  and 
that  Aunt  Stella  took  away  from  me.  By  gad ! " — Tom's 
voice  became  suddenly  louder — "  I'll  smash  into  that  cabinet 
some  day ! " 

Donald  smiled.  He  remembered  his  brother's  boyish  pas 
sion  for  the  coral. 

"  Aunt  Maggie  seems  quite  taken  with  Agnes,"  Tom  went 
on  presently. 

"  Yes,"  said  Donald  dubiously,  "  I  hope  it  lasts." 

"  Did  you  see  Aunt  Maggie  get  me  out  into  the  hall  for  a 
confidential  chat  before  we  left?  She  thought  she'd  hurt 
my  feelings  by  saying  something  about  my  mussing  her 
dress." 

He  finished  with  an  impatient  sigh  which  told  of  other  mat 
ters  on  his  mind. 

Donald  looked  at  him.    "  What  is  it,  Tom  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  nothing,  nothing.     If  I  could  get  together  fifty  or 

188 


THE    BALLINGTONS  189 

seventy-five  cents,  I'd  go  off  on  a  trip.  I  need  a  few  cents 
for  clothes,  too.  I'd  be  thankful  to  have  the  wardrobe  of  a 
Zulu.  I  don't  ask  to  be  arrayed  like  Solomon." 

After  a  pause  Donald  asked  in  an  apologetic  voice,  "  You 
haven't  been  playing  the  stocks  again,  have  you  ?  " 

"  Now  look  here,  Don,"  said  Tom  irritably,  "  there's  reason 
in  stocks  just  as  there  is  in  everything  else.  It's  unscientific 
in  you  to  object  to  something  you  know  nothing  about." 

Donald  raised  his  hand  imploringly.  Tom  muttered  some 
thing  in  his  throat.  The  brothers  walked  on  a  little  distance 
without  speaking. 

Donald  was  reviewing  Tom's  new  fever  for  speculation, 
and  one  result  which  seemed  to  him  particularly  unfortu 
nate.  This  was  a  renewed  and  growing  companionship  with 
Beatrice  Sidney. 

"  Tom,"  Donald  said  thoughtfully,  at  last,  "  do  you  see 
much  of  General  Mott?  " 

"  See  much  of  Mott?    Why,  no,  why  should  I?  " 

"  Well — you  go  out  to  the  lake  house  often  enough." 

"  Well,  I  don't  go  to  see  him,"  said  Tom  crustily. 

"  You  seem  to  be  going  there  a  good  deal,"  persisted  Don 
ald.  "  I  don't  think  it  looks  altogether  well.  It  seems  to  be 
a  good  deal  more  convenient  for  you  to  get  out  there  than 
it  is  for  Sidney.  Of  course  I  know  it's  all  right,  but  I  think 
you  ought  to  be  a  little  careful." 

"  Well,  I'll  be  *  a  little  careful ' !  I  know  what  you  mean. 
Now  Ferdinand  is  back,  we're  in  the  world  of  gossip  once 
more.  If  he  could  do  Beatrice  a  mean  turn  and  get  a  slap 
at  me  at  the  same  time,  one  of  the  main  objects  of  his  life 
would  be  accomplished."  Tom's  tone  was  full  of  venom. 

Donald  tried  to  turn  the  conversation  back  into  its  origi 
nal  channel. 

"  Why  is  it,  Tom,  that  Beatrice  spends  so  much  of  her 
time  away  from  her  husband?  She  no  sooner  got  that  great 
place  built  than  she  leaves  it.  I  thought  she  was  staying 
with  her  father  out  at  the  lake." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  you've  begun  to  gossip,  Don?  "  ex- 


190  THE    BALLINGTONS 

claimed  Tom  angrily.  "  Old  Mott's  down  in  New  York 
speculating  in  stocks,  with  a  long-distance  telephone  put  in 
at  the  lake  house.  Bee  has  her  ticker  and  she  has  made  a 
tidy  little  sum  herself." 

A  look  of  alarm  came  into  Donald's  face.  "  I  hope  you're 
not  interested  in  the  Mott  speculations,"  he  said  earnestly. 
His  worries  with  regard  to  Tom  took  on  a  change  of  front. 
"  The  General's  going  to  get  caught  some  day." 

Tom  gave  a  disdainful  laugh.  "  That's  what  Ferd  thinks. 
But  his  hope  has  been  deferred  a  long  time.  The  Motts  are 
a  cool-headed  lot.  Father  and  daughter  have  got  enough  put 
away  to  buy  our  car-barns  at  the  price  Ferdinand  puts  on 
them,  and  they  won't  touch  it  either,  even  if  they  lose  every 
cent  of  their  floating  capital.  Old  Mott  never  goes  in  over 
his  depths,  and  when  he's  drunk  he  doesn't  go  in  at  all." 

"  What  started  Beatrice  at  this  ? "  said  Donald  after 
having  turned  over  in  his  mind  Tom's  disclosures. 

"  Oh,  she  went  into  it  this  last  summer.  It  was  awfully 
dull  in  Kent,  and  she  couldn't  get  Fred  to  go  anywhere  else. 
Sidney  made  such  a  row  about  her  having  a  ticker  in  Kent 
that  she  put  it  in  at  the  lake  house  to  keep  peace  in  the 
family." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Tom,  that  you  are  countenancing 
Beatrice  in  a  position  of  antagonism  to  her  husband's 
wishes?  I  don't  see  how  your  sense  of  honor  can  allow  you 
to  take  such  a  step." 

"  See  here,  Don,"  replied  Tom  with  a  ring  of  determination 
in  his  voice,  "  my  family  have  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about 
my  course  of  life,  hitherto.  I  haven't  had  character  enough 
to  cut  loose  and  do  what  I  was  made  to  do.  I  am  a  good- 
natured,  shuffling  leaner  like  Uncle  Tom.  Here  I  am,  on  a 
clerk's  salary  in  Ferdinand's  office.  I  won't  have  a  cent  of 
capital  till  I'm  thirty  years  old,  while  mother  and  you,  the 
executors  of  my  father's  estate,  dole  out  to  me  enough  to  buy 
shoestrings  and  neckties.  Mother  would  like  to  buy  them 
for  me  if  she  could.  Looking  forward  to  that  thirtieth  year 
has  been  the  ruin  of  me.  I'm  not  going  to  look  any  more. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  191 

I'm  going  to  get  some  money  now,  anyway  that's  feasible, 
do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  refused  you  money  within  reason,"  said 
Donald  in  a  hurt  voice.  "  I  have  offered  you  a  European 
trip  twice — told  you  to  take  a  few  months  off.  I  make  you 
the  same  offer  now." 

"  I  don't  want  a  few  months  off.  I  want  the  privilege  of 
being  of  age  before  I'm  in  my  second  childhood.  When  I 
go  abroad  it  will  be  on  my  own  money,  to  stay  as  long  as  I 
like." 

The  bitterness  in  Tom's  heart  astonished  Donald.  For  the 
first  time  he  saw  that  he  might  be  the  author  of  more  danger 
ous  developments  in  Tom's  character  than  would  have  taken 
place  had  his  brother  been  left  to  his  own  harmless,  if  mean 
ingless,  ambitions.  Perhaps  his  mother  and  he  had  made  a 
great  mistake.  Perhaps  Tom  should  have  been  allowed  at 
eighteen  to  follow  out  his  queer  passion  to  be  a  goldsmith. 
He  wavered,  was  almost  at  the  point  of  proposing  to  Tom 
the  long-wished-for  study  of  goldsmithry  abroad.  Then  the 
thought  of  Ferdinand's  and  his  mother's  indignation  at  his 
weakness  in  seconding  Tom's  madness  steadied  his  judg 
ment. 

He  laid  his  hand  regretfully  on  Tom's  shoulder.  "  Tom, 
we  all  have  to  give  up  things.  I  know  you  are  worried  and 
exasperated." 

Tom  interrupted  him  savagely,  "  For  heaven's  sake,  spare 
me  that,  Don.  I'm  not  worried  about  anything.  I'm  as 
peaceful  as  a  boiled  egg.  You  and  mother  needn't  sit  on  me 
any  longer.  There's  no  hope  of  my  hatching." 

They  walked  on  in  the  darkness  until  they  reached  the  out 
skirts  of  the  town. 

Then  Donald  spoke  again,  "  I've  been  thinking  about 
something  for  some  time,  Tom.  If  you  have  any  inclination 
to  marry,  I  want  you  to  feel  perfectly  free  to  do  so.  An 
arrangement  can  be  made  to  give  you  a  suitable  income  in 
anticipation  of  your  share  in  our  father's  estate." 

"  I  don't  want  to  get  married,"  replied  Tom  moodily. 


192  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Then  a  memory  came  back  to  him.  There  was  a  new  tone 
in  his  voice  as  he  continued,  "  There's  one  woman  who  might 
have  made  something  of  me." 

"Who  is  that,  Tom?"  Donald  asked  with  an  impulse  of 
hope. 

"  That  young  woman  Agnes  brought  to  our  house  the  time 
she  came  to  dinner.  She  talked  to  me  about  Benvenuto  Cel 
lini  when  I  took  her  home.  She  said  if  a  man  had  it  in  him 
to  be  anything,  he'd  be  it.  If  a  man  had  that  kind  of  woman 
around,  he  might,"  Tom  finished  gloomily. 

"  Agnes  was  telling  me  about  her  this  evening,"  replied 
Donald,  forgetting  his  own  memories  of  that  night  in  his 
surprise  at  Tom's  reminiscence.  "  I  did  not  know  you  took 
an  interest  in  her.  You  never  have  spoken  of  her.  Isn't  she 
older  than  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Lord,  Don,  you  make  me  sick !  " 

Tom  turned  away  from  his  brother  abruptly,  and  started 
across  the  street. 

Donald  put  out  his  hand  and  caught  him.  "  Hold  on, 
Tom !  Come  along,  home.  I  didn't  mean  anything  by  that." 

"  No,  you  haven't  enough  brains  to  mean  anything  when 
you  try."  Tom's  voice  shook  with  passion  and  his  face 
looked  white  under  the  gas-lamp. 

Donald  was  arrested  by  a  look  of  desperation  in  his  brother 
which  he  never  had  seen  before.  "  See  here,  Tom,"  he  said 
decidedly,  "I  believe  you  are  right.  I  don't  mean  about  the 
brains,  but  about  Miriam  Cass." 

He  stopped  and  the  two  looked  at  each  other.  Tom  was 
strangely  quiet. 

Donald  continued.  "  I  think  she  is  a  remarkable  woman, 
a  woman  worth  loving,  and  why  shouldn't  she  love  you  ?  The 
age  doesn't  make  any  difference.  Why  have  you  never 
spoken  about  her  before?  " 

The  color  slowly  rose  into  Tom's  face.  "Why  haven't 
I?  "  he  groaned. 

A  pang  of  sympathy  pierced  to  Donald's  heart.  He  turned 
away  and  began  to  walk  along  slowly. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  193 

In  a  few  moments,  Tom  caught  up  with  him.  "  Don ! " 
he  exclaimed. 

There  was  a  tone  in  his  voice  that  made  Donald's  heart 
leap.  The  next  moment  he  felt  Tom's  arm  thrown  over  his 
shoulder  and  around  his  neck.  "  Let's  talk  about  her ! " 

The  world  as  it  is  vanished  from  Tom  as  he  spoke.  The 
world  as  a  boy  dreams  it  came  in  its  place.  A  sudden 
adoration  that  rises  none  knows  whence  nor  whither  pos 
sessed  him,  the  innocent  passion  that  longs  to  give  and  not 
to  get,  the  idolatry  of  youth  with  all  its  rainbow  glory. 

Donald  did  not  dare  glance  at  him.  He  knew  the  ethereal 
fragility  of  that  mood,  but  he  knew  that  if  Tom  could  keep 
it,  it  would  be  his  salvation.  With  his  heart  in  his  mouth,  he 
began  to  talk  of  Miriam  Cass,  and  when  they  reached  the 
house  and  separated  for  the  night  the  tears  were  wet  on  his 
cheeks  and  Tom's  mood  was  unbroken. 


CHAPTER  VI 

CEVERAL  days  after  her  arrival  Agnes  was  busy 
arranging  her  own  and  her  husband's  rooms  when  she 
heard  Miss  Margaret's  delicate  tap  at  the  half-open  door. 
Miss  Ballington  entered  without  waiting  for  an  invitation, 
holding  a  large  pasteboard  box  in  her  arms. 

Agnes  hurried  to  help  her.  "Let  me  take  the  box,  Aunt 
Margaret.  You'll  drop  it,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hands. 

"  You  dear  child,"  ej  aculated  Miss  Margaret  ecstatically. 
'*  How  happy  I  am  since  you've  come  here.  I've  never  found 
anybody — except  Ferdinand,  of  course,  and  those  who  have 
left  us — with  whom  I've  felt  quite  so  much  in  sympathy.  I 
don't  mean  anything  against  Sarah  or  Donald  or  dear  Tom. 
You  don't  think  that,  do  you  ?  " 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Agnes;  "what  have  you  there?  It 
looks  wonderfully  interesting." 

"  I  knew  you  would  love  to  look  at  these  things  with  me," 
said  the  elder  woman  delightedly. 

She  fluttered  around  to  Agnes'  side  of  the  box,  and  gave 
her  several  butterfly  kisses.  Agnes  took  off  the  cover  and 
sat  down  on  the  floor  by  the  box. 

"Why!  They're  baby  clothes,"  she  said,  lifting  an  ex 
quisite,  old-fashioned  garment  without  sleeves. 

"  They're  what  dear  little  Ferdinand  used  to  wear,"  said 
Miss  Margaret,  patting  the  dress.  "  Estelle  made  them  her 
self.  She  was  an  expert  needle-woman.  She  had  had  lessons 
from  the  nuns." 

"They  are  beautiful,"  said  Agnes,  turning  over  some  of 
the  garments  and  thinking  of  her  own  mother's  equally 
beautiful  but  self-taught  work.  "  Think  of  Ferdinand's  ever 
getting  into  this  shirt !  " 

"  He  was  the  sweetest  baby,"  said  Miss  Margaret.  "  Some 
times  Estelle  would  let  me  give  him  his  bath.  See  this  little 

194 


THE    BALLINGTONS  195 

brush.  It's  the  very  one  I  used  to  brush  his  hair  with."  She 
laid  down  the  brush  and  took  up  a  package  of  letters,  tied 
with  a  faded  ribbon.  "I'm  going  to  leave  these  for  you  to 
read,  dearest.  They're  my  most  precious  letters.  They're 
from  Tom — that's  Ferdinand's  father,  you  know — and 
Estelle,  and  some  from  Ferdinand,  too.  My  brother  Tom  was 
a  very  attractive  man,  so  good-hearted.  I  don't  believe  he 
ever  said  an  unkind  word  to  anybody  in  all  his  life.  I  wish 
you  could  have  heard  him  sing.  He  used  to  sing  at  all  the 
church  sociables." 

Here  Miss  Margaret's  reminiscences  became  too  vivid  for 
mere  narration  and  she  began  singing  softly  in  a  sweet,  thin 
voice : 

"  Kathleen  Mavourneen,  the  gray  dawn  is  breaking, 
The  horn  of  the  hunter  is  heard  on  the  hill." 

As  Agnes  watched  her  she  felt  the  ghost  of  the  first  Tom 
Ballington  behind  his  sister  as  she  knelt  on  the  floor,  a  gentler 
and  sweeter  spirit  than  his  son  had  sketched  him. 

She  shook  off  the  eerie  feeling  and  resolutely  took  up 
the  letters.  "  I  have  wondered  what  Ferdinand's  mother 
was  like,"  she  said ;  "  I  can't  tell  how  glad  I  shall  be  to 
read  her  letters." 

Her  evident  interest  filled  Miss  Margaret's  cup  of  satis 
faction  to  overflowing  and  she  became  girlishly  confidential. 
"  And  here  is  some  of  Ferdinand's  hair  when  he  was  two  years 
old,"  she  said  in  a  half  whisper.  "  Isn't  it  soft  ?  I  used  to 
rock  him  to  sleep  in  my  arms  sometimes  in  that  little  white 
chair  in  my  room.  Some  time,  perhaps,  I'll  give  the  chair  to 
you,  dear." 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  take  it  away  from  you,  Aunt  Margaret. 
I'd  like  a  little  wisp  of  this  hair,  though,  to  put  in  one  of  my 
lockets,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"You  shall  have  half.  You  don't  think  I  ought  to  give 
it  all  to  you,  do  you  ? "  Miss  Margaret  paused  apprehen 
sively. 

"  No,  indeed,"  exclaimed  Agnes. 


196  THE     BALLINGTONS 

"  Thank  you,  dear.  I  thought  these  things  ought  to  belong 
to  you  now.  But  you'll  let  me  keep  one  little  set,  won't  you? 
I'd  like  to  have  one  set  for  my  very  own." 

Agnes  was  touched,  Miss  Margaret  was  so  evidently  giving 
away  her  dearest  treasures,  and  yet  they  must  not  be  refused. 
"  Certainly,  dear  Aunt  Margaret.  It's  very  good  in  you  to 
give  any  of  them  to  me." 

As  she  spoke  Agnes  replaced  the  little  pieces  in  the  box, 
with  the  exception  of  the  one  set,  and  with  a  look  of  friendly 
gratitude,  picked  up  the  box  and  carried  it  into  her  closet. 

When  she  returned  Miss  Ballington  was  sitting  in  a  rock 
ing-chair  picking  nervously  at  a  bow  on  her  dress. 

"  Agnes,  dear,"  she  said. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  Agnes'  mood  instinctively  clouded 
over.  "  Yes  ?  "  she  asked  guardedly. 

"  We  love  each  other,  don't  we  ?  " 

"  Why — yes.    Certainly." 

"  There  ought  to  be  perfect  confidence  between  us.  Don't 
you  think  so  ?  " 

Agnes  made  no  reply. 

"  Don't  you  think  so,  precious  ?  "  repeated  Miss  Margaret, 
and  she  went  over  and  put  her  thin  arms  over  the  back  of 
Agnes'  chair. 

"  Wasn't  that  picture  of  Ferdinand  too  pretty  for  any 
thing?"  Agnes  exclaimed  evasively,  rising  and  going  to  the 
closet  again.  "  I'm  going  to  have  it  out  here  till  he  comes 
home.  There !  Doesn't  he  look  dignified  ?  " 

She  did  not  sit  down  again,  but  stood  looking  at  a  picture 
which  she  had  placed  on  the  high  mahogany  bureau.  She 
was  trying  to  bring  back  the  easy  relations  which  had  char 
acterized  the  opening  of  the  interview. 

Miss  Margaret  rose  and  slipped  her  arm  around  Agnes' 
waist.  "  Isn't  there  a  soulful  look  in  his  eyes?  "  she  asked. 
"  He  used  to  look  at  me  that  way  sometimes  when  he  was  a 
little  boy.  Dear  little  fellow.  I've  thought  he  must  look  at 
you  that  way,  doesn't  he,  dear  ?  " 

Agnes  was  divided  between  a  desire  to  laugh  at  the  soul- 


THE     BALLINGTONS  197 

ful  glanees  of  the  bafby  Ferdinand,  and  resentment  at  the 
starved  sentimentality  which  was  timidly  trying  to  claim 
kinship  with  her  young  and  full  experience,  but  the  pathos  of 
the  ridiculous  situation  gagged  her  exasperation  into  a  futile 
reply.  "  Why — I  don't  know." 

"  Wouldn't  you — you  wouldn't  be  angry  if  I  ask  you  some 
thing,  will  you,  dear?  "  Miss  Margaret  hesitated  at  her  own 
temerity.  Then  she  took  courage.  She  had  at  last  found 
someone  who  was  kind  ^nd  who  might  give  her  a  glimpse  into 
that  world  from  which  fate  had  shut  her  out.  "  I'd  so  like 
to  know  what  he  says  to  you  sometimes.  Won't  you  tell  me 
some  of  the  pet  names  he  calls  you,  dear?  I'm  going  to  let 
you  read  my  letters,"  she  added  tremulously,  frightened  by 
the  sudden  flush  on  Agnes'  cheeks  and  brow. 

Agnes'  sense  of  humor  came  to  the  rescue.  "  He  gen 
erally  calls  me  '  Agnes'." 

"  Don't  be  angry  wifti  me,  dearest.    Please  don't." 

Miss  Margaret  moved  hesitatingly  toward  Agnes  and 
stood  trembling  in  front  of  her.  As  the  young  wife  glanced 
down  and  saw  the  sterile  hopes  and  blasted  instincts  in  the 
withered  facfe  her  heart  smote  her. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  he  called  you  the  other  day,"  she  said 
smiling,  a  sudden  thought  coming  to  her.  "  He  called  you  a 
carnation  pink." 

Miss  Margaret's  face  took  on  an  illumination.  "  Did  he?  " 
she  said  softly.  "  How  sweet  in  you  to  tell  me,  dear." 

Agnes  was  glad  of  the  diversion,  but  her  conscience  pricked 
her  a  little  at  the  construction  she  had  put  upon  some  words 
of  Ferdinand's. 

Miss  Margaret  did  not  go,  however. 

"  I  never  thought  I  could  be  so  happy  with  Ferdinand's 
wife  here,"  she  said  presently,  sitting  down  and  drawing  a 
crochet  pattern  from  her  pocket.  "  It's  so  nice  to  have  some 
one  to  chat  with  mornings.  Sarah  comes  sometimes.  But 
Sarah  is  rather  unapproachable,  don't  you  think  so,  dear?" 

Agnes  smiled  shrewdly.  "  I  shouldn't  think  she  would 
attract  confidence,"  she  said. 


198  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"  I  never  can  forget  how  unjust  she  was  to  you,  dear.  You 
are  the  very  last- person  in  the  world  to  call  bold.  I'm  sure 
nobody  could  think  that  of  you.  Ferdinand  was  angry,  when 
he  heard  it.  Oh!" 

Agnes'  smile  suddenly  vanished.  Indignation  at  Mrs.  Bal- 
lington  was  aggravated  by  impatience  at  herself  for  having 
given  Aunt  Margaret  a  loophole  for  gossip. 

Miss  Margaret  stammered  on  confusedly.  "  I  oughtn't  to 
have  told  you  that.  I  promised  Donald — no,  it  was  Ferdinand 
I  promised.  He  said  just  wait  a  year  and  see  what  you  would 
be.  He  said  he  was  going  to  give  you  every  advantage. 
Every  advantage  that  money  could  buy.  Wasn't  it  sweet  in 
him?" 

Miss  Margaret  paused  with  a  hopeful  expression. 

"  Very,"  responded  Agnes   icily. 

"  I'm  sure  you  are  lovely  already,  dear,"  exclaimed  Miss 
Margaret,  ill  at  ease.  "You  look  pale,  dear  child.  You 
aren't  ill,  are  you?" 

"No,  not  at  all." 

"I  want  you  just  to  rest  and  take  your  ease  here.  You 
had  to  work  so  hard  at  home."  If  Miss  Margaret  had  had 
Machiavelian  designs  of  enjoying  herself  at  another's  self- 
invited  discomfiture,  she  might  now  have  congratulated  herself 
upon  her  success,  but  she  went  on,  innocent  of  any  such 
motives :  "  I  know  all  about  what  a  hard  home  life  you  had, 
and  how  exacting  your  mother  was." 

A  flood  of  color  swept  into  Agnes'  face.  "  My  mother 
was — a  saint ! — a  martyr !  "  she  said  abruptly.  "  I  was  a 
miserable,  shiftless,  good-for-nothing  girl." 

Miss  Margaret  laughed  delightedly,  dropped  her  work,  and 
reached  up  to  give  Agnes  a  little  hug. 

Agnes  turned  away  to  the  bureau  and  looked  at  her  watch. 
The  conversation  was  growing  intolerable. 

"  Are  you  faint,  dear  ?  "  asked  Miss  Margaret  solicitously. 

"  No,"  came  the  laconic  reply. 

But  Miss  Margaret's  evil  genius  was  in  full  control  of  her. 
"  You  aren't  very  strong,  are  you,  now?  "  she  continued. 


THE     BALLINGTONS  199 

"Now?"  Agnes  turned  and  met  Miss  Margaret's  look 
full. 

The  dark  gaze  and  the  somberness  of  the  one  word  would 
have  warned  off  anybody  but  a  little  brow-beaten  creature 
expanding  for  the  first  time  under  the  genial  influence  of 
sympathetic  kindness.  So  she  added  the  finishing  touch  to 
her  unintentional  but  none  the  less  artistic  inquisitional 
torture. 

"  I  mean,  dear — it's  all  interest.  I  thought  perhaps  Fer 
dinand  or  you  would  have  told  me  before  this.  I've  tried  to 
show  that  I  love  you.  I'm  just  like  Ferdinand's  mother. 
Won't  you  tell  me,  dear  ?  " 

Agnes  was  smarting  under  the  realization  that  she  her 
self  had  been  the  source  and  Ferdinand  the  channel  of  Miss 
Margaret's  knowledge,  such  as  it  was,  of  the  Sidney  family. 
Her  heart  bled  at  the  thought  of  her  mother's  pride  and 
loyalty  in  the  family,  and  her  own  foolish  garrulity. 

"You  remember  I  have  not  seen  my  mother  since  my 
return,"  she  said  haughtily,  and,  as  she  finished  speaking, 
she  walked  across  the  room  toward  Ferdinand's  door,  her 
heart  on  fire  with  love  and  longing  for  the  woman  who  had 
borne  her,  nursed  her,  and  then  given  her  away  just  when  she 
had  arrived  at  a  point  where  she  could  do  something  in  return. 
What  a  thankless  office  motherhood  is!  She  went  into  the 
adjoining  room  and  closed  the  door  after  her. 

Miss  Margaret  sprang  up,  letting  her  crochet  work  drop 
to  the  floor,  and  flew  to  the  door.  "  Agnes !  Dear,  dear 
Agnes ! "  she  called  excitedly.  Then  she  bent  down  to  the 
keyhole  and  modified  her  voice.  "Won't  you  let  me  come  in 
just  a  minute?  Just  a  little  minute?  I  do  want  to  tell 
you " 

She  turned  the  knob  gently  and  had  slightly  opened  the 
door,  when  it  was  pushed  back  from  the  other  side  and  the 
key  turned  in  the  lock. 

Miss  Margaret  stood  still,  trembling.  "  She's  turned  the 
key  on  me.  She's  locked  me  out,"  she  said  with  a  bewildered 
expression.  Then  her  face  quivered.  She  turned  and  ran  out 


200  THE     BALLINGTONS 

into  the  hall  and  to  her  own  room,  where  she  shut  herself  in 
and  stayed  until  night. 

Agnes  lay  upon  the  bed  in  Ferdinand's  room  until  the  sum 
mons  to  luncheon.  She  was  faint  in  mind  and  body,  and  torn 
with  rebellion  as  she  realized  the  physical  and  mental  impo 
tence  so  relentlessly  gaining  upon  her.  She  realized  that  she 
was  abnormally  sensitive  and  she  shrank  as  she  thought  of  the 
future. 

She  ate  her  luncheon  alone,  making  no  inquiries  for  Miss 
Ballington,  and  answering  Eliza  in  monosyllables  when  the 
latter  attempted  a  conversation.  In  the  afternoon  she  wrote 
a  long  letter  to  Miriam  Cass,  who  was  in  New  York  studying 
art.  When  the  letter  was  done,  Agnes  dressed  for  dinner. 
The  habit  of  fastidious  care  as  to  her  personal  appearance 
was  growing  upon  her  as  insidiously  as  was  the  instinct  of 
timidity  and  caution  in  her  physical  exercise.  Once  she  had 
been  fearless  in  her  movements,  careless  ki  her  looks,  but  the 
diffidence  which  had  attacked  her  mental  life  was  spreading 
to  the  physical. 

The  time  of  Ferdinand's  return  at  night  was  the  happiest 
part  of  the  day.  To-night  Agnes  looked  for  him  as  for  the 
shadow  of  a  rock  in  a  weary  land.  She  heard  his  ring  of  the 
bell,  heard  Eliza  pass  through  the  hall  to  admit  him,  and  went 
to  the  stairs  to  meet  him. 

Miss  Ballington  was  already  greeting  him  in  the  lower 
hall.  Agnes  heard  her  words,  "  Will  you  come  into  the 
library,  Ferdinand?  I  wish  to  speak  to  you."  She  saw  her 
husband  follow  the  drooping  little  figure,  and  then  she  went 
back  to  her  room  and  waited. 

Downstairs,  Ferdinand  remained  standing  in  the  library. 
And  Miss  Margaret,  after  having  seated  herself,  got  up 
again. 

"  Ferdinand,  something  exceedingly  painful  has  hap 
pened,"  she  said,  with  difficulty. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Your  wife  has  locked  me  out  of  her  room — turned  the 
key  against  me." 


THE     BALLINGTONS  201 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  She  turned  the  key  in  my  face,  Ferdinand,"  Miss  Mar 
garet  went  on  more  earnestly. 

"  Evidently  she  wished  to  be  alone." 

Ferdinand  was  displeased  at  this  beginning  of  domestic 
discord. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  this,"  he  added. 

"  No,  of  course  not.  I  wanted  you  to  ask  her  if  I  could 
come  up  to  see  her.  I  want  to  tell  her  I'm  sorry.  I  did  not 
mean  to  force  myself  upon  her."  Miss  Margaret's  misery 
was  acute  and  patent. 

"  I  will  give  her  your  message,"  her  nephew  responded 
briefly. 

He  was  turning  toward  the  door  when  his  aunt  spoke 
again.  She  was  struggling  to  keep  her  self-control  and  to 
conciliate  him.  A  brave  attempt  to  smile  resulted  only  in  a 
look  of  desperate  beseeching. 

"  And,  dear,  before  you  go,  I  want  to  tell  you  how  very, 
very  happy  you've  made  me." 

He  stood  waiting. 

"  Agnes  told  me  the  sweet  name  you  gave  me.  You  don't 
mind  her  telling  me,  do  you?  I  shall  always  love  the  flower 
more  after  this.  Carnation  pink ! " 

He  looked  at  her  uncomprehending.  Suddenly  a  recol 
lection  darted  into  his  mind.  Several  days  previous,  when 
commenting  upon  his  aunt  to  Agnes  he  had  remarked,  "  She 
has  about  as  much  logic  as  that  carnation  pink." 

"  If  there  is  nothing  else,  I  will  go  upstairs,"  he  said,  turn 
ing  away. 

He  had  been  chafing  under  the  delay  which  kept  him  from 
his  wife  until  the  pink  was  mentioned.  Now,  however,  he  went 
directly  into  his  own  room  without  speaking  to  Agnes. 

When  they  were  called  to  dinner  he  opened  the  door  into 
her  room  and  entered.  Then,  with  only  a  cold  salutation,  he 
remarked  as  he  opened  the  hall  door  for  her,  "  Aunt  Margaret 
wished  me  to  tell  you  that  she  was  sorry  she  intruded  upon 
you,  and  to  ask  if  you  would  let  her  explain." 


202  THE    BALLINGTONS 

He  was  already  softening  toward  her  as  he  looked  at  her, 
but  Agnes  was  now  sore  from  his  leaving  her  alone.  "  I  will 
apologize  to  her  to-night,"  she  said,  feeling  his  words  a  rebuke 
and  too  proud  to  explain  the  episode. 

Ferdinand  never  asked  for  explanations,  so  he  put  his  own 
interpretation  upon  her  silence,  and  changed  the  subject. 

Miss  Ballington  was  in  the  dining-room  when  they  entered. 
Agnes  spoke  to  her  at  once. 

"  I  was  very  rude  to  you  to-day,  Aunt  Margaret.  For 
give  me." 

"  Don't  speak  of  it,"  exclaimed  Miss  Ballington  in  a  new 
distress  of  remorse  and  pain.  "  It  was  all  my  fault." 

In  spite  of  the  mutual  apologies  the  dinner  hour  was  not 
comfortable.  Agnes  was  on  the  verge  of  crying.  She  ex 
cused  herself  at  the  dessert  and  returned  to  her  own  room. 

"  She  hasn't  forgiven  me,"  said  Miss  Margaret  plaintively, 
as  Agnes'  footsteps  died  away.  "  How  cold  and  straight  she 
sat  there.  Do  you  think  she  is  hard-hearted,  Ferdinand?  She 
isn't  hard-hearted,  is  she  ?  " 

Ferdinand  rose  in  cold  disgust  and  went  into  the  library, 
where  he  spent  the  first  part  of  the  evening  reading.  It  was 
part  of  his  system  of  self-control  to  allow  no  external  annoy 
ance  perceptibly  to  disturb  his  comfort.  He  believed  in  leav 
ing  people  to  their  humors.  With  Agnes,  however,  he  found 
this  rather  difficult.  At  last  he  got  up,  put  down  his  paper, 
selected  a  book  from  the  case  and  went  upstairs  to  his  wife's 
room. 

He  found  her  sitting  idly  by  the  window  in  the  dark. 
"  Come,  Agnes.  This  is  foolish,"  he  said,  and  he  lighted  the 
lamp. 

"Let  me  be  the  judge  of  my  own  actions,"  said  a  low, 
quivering  voice,  and  Agnes  turned  her  eyes  with  their  enlarged 
pupils  toward  her  husband  and  the  light.  She  was  thinking 
of  his  promise  to  exhibit  her  in  a  year. 

Ferdinand  looked  at  her  in  surprise;  then  he  said,  "You 
remember  a  conversation  we  had  in  Paris  on  the  subject  of 
religion  ?  " 


THE    BALLINGTONS  203 

Her  face  softened  instantly.  "  Yes — yes,"  she  said,  half 
rising,  and  sitting  again. 

"  I  didn't  wish  to  unsettle  you  while  we  were  traveling," 
continued  Ferdinand.  "  But  now  I  should  like  you  to  begin 
a  course  of  reading  which  will  bring  us  into  understanding. 
This  is  a  good  book  to  begin  with."  He  came  toward  her 
and  held  out  the  volume. 

She  looked  at  the  title,  saw,  "  Controversial  Essays.  T. 
Huxley,"  and  said,  turning  to  the  window  again,  "  I  shall 
not  read  it." 

Ferdinand  had  hit  upon  a  most  unfortunate  time  for  intro 
ducing  Agnes  to  Huxley.  It  gave  her  a  chance  to  retrieve 
what  she  considered  past  disloyalty  to  her  mother.  Her 
afternoon  of  lonely  brooding  over  Miss  Margaret's  unlucky 
disclosures  had  resulted  in  a  series  of  self-accusations  and 
resolves. 

He  still  held  out  the  book. 

"  Do  I  understand  that  you  refuse  to  read  this  book  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  I  refuse.  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  heretical  works. 
Mother  wouldn't  allow  them  in  our  house.  I  shall  not  read 
one  of  your  series." 

The  words  ended  in  a  sob. 

He  waited  a  moment  longer,  turned  slowly,  laid  the  book 
on  the  table,  and  walked  toward  the  door.  Then,  before 
leaving  the  room,  he  said,  looking  toward  her,  "  The  last 
time  we  spoke  of  this  you  were  reasonable,  although  ignorant. 
I  have  left  the  book  on  your  table.  When  you  become  rea 
sonable  again,  we  will  discuss  it  further.  There  is  one  quota 
tion  I  will  leave  for  you  to  consider  before  you  take  up  the 
reading :  '  He  who  dare  not  reason  is  a  coward ;  he  who  will 
not  reason  is  a  bigot ;  he  who  cannot  reason  is  a  fool.' ' 
Then  he  went  into  the  hall  and  closed  the  door  after  him. 

As  soon  as  Ferdinand  left  her  Agnes  broke  down  entirely. 
When  she  was  somewhat  relieved,  she  picked  up  the  volume 
of  Huxley's  Essays,  carried  it  into  Ferdinand's  room  and 
left  it  in  the  middle  of  his  bed.  "  If  he  brings  it  back,"  she 


204  THE    BALLINGTONS 

said  to  herself  with  flashing  eyes,  "  I  shall  throw  it  into  the 
fire." 

She  was  partly  undressed,  when,  happening  to  catch  sight 
of  the  letter  she  had  written  to  Miriam,  she  put  on  a  wrapper, 
got  out  her  writing  materials,  and  added  another  sheet  to  the 
letter,  then  sealed  it  up  and  went  to  bed. 

Her  sleep  was  troubled.  Toward  morning  she  began  to 
rest.  Suddenly  she  woke  up  feeling  someone  near  her.  She 
was  frightened  and  sat  up  instantly.  A  little  figure  in  white 
was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  just  visible  in  the  pale 
dawn.  "  Aunt  Margaret,"  exclaimed  Agnes,  "  is  that  you?  " 

"  Yes,  dear.  I  couldn't  endure  it.  I've  hardly  slept  all 
night.  I  never  ought  to  have  asked  your  confidence.  And  I 
ought  not  to  have  spoken  to  Ferdinand  afterwards.  Oh,  I'm 
very  miserable,  Agnes  dear ;  do  say  you  forgive  me." 

"Yes,  Aunt  Margaret,"  Agnes  answered  sadly.  "If 
there's  anything  to  forgive,  I  do.  You  mustn't  stay  here. 
You'll  catch  cold." 

"  No,  I  won't.  I  won't,  dear.  I'm  going  to  try  to  make 
you  happy  after  this."  And  Miss  Margaret  turned  and  hur 
ried  away. 

Ferdinand  made  no  further  reference  to  the  Huxley.  It 
stayed  in  his  room  on  the  table  where  Eliza  put  it  when  she 
found  it  on  the  foot  of  his  bed.  Agnes  tried  to  put  the  cir 
cumstance  from  her  mind,  but  with  pretty  poor  success.  She 
was  unrelenting  in  her  refusal  of  Ferdinand's  request,  and 
might  long  have  remained  so  but  for  Miriam's  next  letter,  one 
portion  of  which  read  as  follows : 

I  can  understand  what  you  write  to  me  about  religion.  I  have  been 
through  it,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  we  need  not  trouble  our 
selves  about  "  dangerous  doctrines."  No  danger  is  quite  so  great  as 
that  of  mental  timidity.  Why  should  one  be  afraid  to  find  out  that 
certain  things  one  has  believed  are  foolish?  If  you  like  we  can  read 
some  together. 

The  same  day  this  letter  was  received  came  two  books  from 
Miriam.  Agnes  began  them  with  a  will,  finished  them  in  a 


THE     BALLINGTONS  205 

few  days  in  a  thirsty  state  of  mind,  and  took  the  book  of 
Huxley's  from  Ferdinand's  room  into  her  own. 

He  noticed  it,  and  congratulated  himself  upon  his  coup 
d'etat.  Ordinarily  women  were  to  be  left  to  the  illusions  of 
faith.  They  were  not  formed  for  stronger  vision.  He  had 
chosen  his  mate,  however,  for  intellectual  as  well  as  material 
companionship,  and  he  watched  with  satisfaction  her  progress 
along  the  path  which  he  had  marked  out  for  her. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IC'OR  two  months  Agnes  found  herself  the  center  of  Wins 
ton  attention.  She  received  many  calls,  returned  them 
with  Miss  Margaret  or  Mrs.  Silas  Ballington,  attended  a 
large  reception  which  the  latter  gave  for  her,  more  to  prove 
that  there  was  no  ground  for  the  rumor  of  Donald's  and 
Ferdinand's  rivalry  than  for  anything  else,  and  was  present 
at  the  various  other  festivities.  She  felt  considerable  interest 
in  meeting  socially  the  influential  townspeople  whom  she  used 

.  to  usher  to  their  seats  at  the  college  musicales  and  lectures. 

'&  College  itself  was  entering  upon  a  struggle  with  poverty 
under  new  and  cold  management,  but  it  was  still  a  familiar 
and  memory-haunted  spot  which  she  sought  from  time  to 
time  when  she  felt  lonely. 

During  these  first  weeks  in  Winston  Agnes  was  also  get 
ting  an  insight  into  the  family  which  she  had  entered.  Ferdi 
nand's  differentiation  from  the  rest  of  the  Ballingtons  grew 
upon  her,  and  the  more  Miss  Margaret  talked  of  her  dead 
brother  Tom  the  clearer  became  Agnes'  conviction  that  Ferdi 
nand  must  be  a  Landseer  with  little  or  nothing  of  his  father 
in  him.  She  fell  into  the  way  of  questioning  Miss  Margaret 
about  the  mother,  Estelle  Landseer,  about  the  grandfather, 
rich  old  Ferdinand  Landseer,  and  his  eccentric  wife,  Estelle's 
mother,  whose  hermit  life  prevented  anyone  from  knowing  her. 
Miss  Margaret  was  not  at  ease,  Agnes  soon  discovered,  under 
this  catechism,  and  the  painfully  conscientious  replies  confirmed 
Agnes  in  her  preconceived  notions  of  the  uncompromising  and 
silent  nature  of  her  husband's  mother.  She  often  looked  at  the 
baby-clothes,  wondering  that  the  woman  who  had  invented 
the  car-spring  should  be  so  exquisite  a  needle-woman  and  so 
painstaking  a  housekeeper  as  her  letters  showed  her  to  be. 

These  simple  and  formal  letters,  written  for  the  most 
part  about  ordinary  domestic  occurrences,  brought  Agnes 

206 


THE    BALLINGTONS  207 

into  closer  touch  with  the  woman  whom  she  dimly  felt  to  be 
the  key  to  much  she  could  not  understand.  Here  and  there 
on  the  neatly-written  pages  sentences  stood  out  in  startling 
contrast  to  the  rest,  like  flashes  of  fire  struck  out  by  the  col 
lision  of  her  will  with  her  environment. 

One  of  the  letters  was  a  curious,  proud  apology  for  having 
taken  with  her,  against  the  doctor's  orders,  the  three-year-old 
baby  Ferdinand  when  she  was  ordered  from  home  for  rest 
and  change.  "  I  know  you  and  Thomas  would  do  everything 
for  the  baby,  dear  Margaret,  but  he  is  a  greater  care  than 
most  children,  owing,  I  believe,  to  his  having  inherited  my 
stubborn  will,  and  I  could  not  feel  right  about  leaving  him. 
I  often  tell  myself,  when  tired,  that  we  must  not  spoil  the  man 
in  humoring  the  child.  I  hope  and  pray  that  he  has  been 
born  to  glorify  God.  Whether  we  enjoy  or  not  is  relatively 
unimportant." 

Agnes  pondered  over  this  letter.  There  was  the  same  note 
of  dominant  character  here  that  there  was  in  her  own 
mother's  letters,  but  along  with  it  was  a  reserve  to  which 
Mrs.  Sidney  was  a  stranger.  Agnes  suspected  that  Ferdi 
nand's  mother  had  planned  the  trip  away  not  to  get  rest 
and  change  for  herself,  but  to  get  the  child  away  from  its 
jovial,  easy-going  father  and  its  weakly -indulgent  aunt. 

After  reading  the  letters  it  did  not  surprise  Agnes  to  learn 
of  her  mother-in-law's  stern  adherence  to  the  Calvinistic  faith 
in  which  she  herself  had  been  born  and  bred,  but  she  appre 
ciated  a  vast  difference  between  the  Calvinism  of  Dr.  Sidney 
and  the  Calvinism  of  the  old  letters  and  the  markings  of  the 
religious  books  which  once  had  belonged  to  Ferdinand's 
mother.  With  Estelle  the  unflinching  theology,  grimly  ac 
cepted,  seemed  ever  present  and  was  even  apparent  in  that 
period  of  her  correspondence  when,  owing  to  her  mother's 
peculiarities,  old  Ferdinand  Landseer  had  put  her  in  a  con 
vent  school  to  learn  French,  music  and  sewing. 

Once  when  Agnes  commented  to  her  husband  upon  his 
mother's  rigid  orthodoxy  he  answered  her  with  a  reminiscent 
smile,  "  One  of  the  few  things  I  remember  her  saying  is  a 


208  THE     BALLINGTONS 

sentence  she  quoted  once  to  my  father,  *  For  whom  He  did 
foreknow  He  also  did  predestinate.'  It  was  shortly  before 
she  died,  and  the  reason  I  remember  it  is  that  she  was  stopped 
in  the  middle  by  a  fit  of  coughing,  but  it  didn't  prevent  her 
finishing  the  sentence  a  word  at  a  time.  My  father  began 
to  laugh,  but  when  he  picked  her  up  to  carry  her  to  the  lounge 
he  was  crying.  As  soon  as  she  had  breath  enough  to  get  up 
she  walked  back  to  her  chair."  Ferdinand's  smile  had  van 
ished,  and  he  added  with  that  respect  and  satisfaction  which 
he  always  showed  in  speaking  of  his  mother.  "  My  mother 
was  a  logical  woman."  It  was  a  long  time  before  Agnes 
understood  what  connection  there  was  in  Ferdinand's  mind 
between  logic  and  this  incident,  but  that  was  one  of  the  things 
she  came  to  know. 

Agnes  now  had  been  married  seven  months  and  yet  had  not 
visited  her  mother.  Although  she  had  made  the  trip  alone 
repeatedly  as  a  girl  going  to  and  from  college,  it  seemed 
to  be  a  matter  of  pride  with  Ferdinand  to  accompany  her 
on  her  first  visit  home,  so  she  was  obliged  to  control  her  im 
patience  until  he  could  leave  his  business.  Finally,  at  Christ 
mas  time,  he  proposed  that  they  go  to  see  her  mother.  Agnes 
would  not  confess  to  herself  that  she  would  rather  have  gone 
alone. 

Dr.  Quinn  met  them  at  the  station  with  Peggy*  and  Agnes' 
heart  went  out  to  the  doctor  when  she  saw  his  placid  spec 
tacled  face  through  the  car  window.  The  town  seemed  oddly 
still,  and  as  they  drove  up  to  her  mother's  home  it  looked 
low  and  broad  and  isolated  from  the  wide  world  she  had 
known  since  she  left  its  doors.  But  the  woman  on  the  porch, 
stretching  out  hospitable  arms  to  her,  held  the  knowledge 
of  that  world  in  the  clear  eyes  which  met  her  daughter's  with 
understanding. 

"  You'll  find  your  room  all  ready,  Agnes,"  said  Mrs.  Sid 
ney,  picking  up  some  of  the  luggage  before  Ferdinand  was 
able  to  grasp  it.  "  The  train  was  late,  and  dinner's  been 
waiting.  Hurry  up  and  get  ready.  God  be  praised,  you're 
safe  at  home  again." 


THE     BALLINGTONS  209 

Agnes  went  upstairs  with  a  youthful  heart.  "  Mother 
will  take  care  of  everything  now,"  she  thought. 

She  looked  in  upon  her  aunt,  greeted  her  affectionately, 
then  hurriedly  took  off  her  furs  and  wraps.  The  bedroom 
looked  low-ceilinged,  but  she  never  had  loved  it  so  well  before. 
She  thrilled  with  pleasure  when  Ferdinand  said,  "  It  is  very 
homelike,  more  so  than  our  house." 

"  Isn't  it  lovely !  "  Agnes  answered  in  delight,  running 
through  the  upstairs  rooms  in  a  fervor  of  joy.  "  And  smell 
the  turkey ! "  she  cried  as  her  husband  met  her  and  they  de 
scended  the  stairs.  "  This  is  just  too  good.  I  have  my  little 
blue  teacup,  and  we'll  have  our  tea  with  the  dinner.  How 
lovely  everything  is.  How  your  face  shines,  mother.  It 
makes  me  think  of  Moses  when  he  came  down  from  the 
mount." 

They  all  sat  down  at  the  table,  Dr.  Quinn  at  the  head. 

"  You  shouldn't  speak  flippantly  about  Moses,  Agnes,'* 
said  Mrs.  Sidney  after  the  doctor  had  asked  the  blessing, 
but  there  was  a  happy  smile  on  her  face.  "  If  my  face 
shines,  it  is  with  soap  and  water." 

"  At  all  events,  then,"  remarked  Dr.  Quinn,  looking  at  Mrs. 
Sidney  with  friendly  eyes,  "  it  shines  with  the  next  thing  to 
godliness." 

As  soon  as  the  dinner  was  over  Agnes  rose  and  said,  "  Give 
me  an  apron,  mother.  I'm  going  to  help  with  the  dishes." 

Ferdinand,  Dr.  Quinn,  and  Aunt  Mattie  were  energetically 
ushered  into  the  parlor  by  Mrs.  Sidney,  who  seated  them 
around  nuts  and  apples,  furnished  them  a  topic  of  conversa 
tion  by  telling  Ferdinand  that  his  two  companions  had  been 
arguing  for  a  week  past  over  Cleopatra's  mummy,  about 
which  he  now  would  be  able  to  tell  them  all  there  was  to 
know.  Thereupon  she  went  back  to  the  kitchen  and  closed 
the  door  behind  her. 

It  was  with  a  deep  sigh  of  content  that  she  took  her 
daughter's  face  between  her  hard  hands  and  kissed  her 
soundly.  "  They're  settled  in  there,  and  now  we  can  have  a 
good,  long  talk,"  she  said. 


210  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Agnes  began  at  the  beginning,  and  gave  the  history  of 
their  travels  abroad.  Mrs.  Sidney  listened  with  a  pleasure 
that  was  almost  keener,  Agnes  thought,  than  she  herself  had 
experienced  in  making  the  trip.  Indeed  the  mother's  satisfac 
tion  was  unbounded  in  the  fact  that  Providence  had  given 
Agnes  such  opportunities. 

When  Mrs.  Sidney  had  been  satisfied  about  the  wedding 
trip,  she  questioned  her  daughter  about  her  new  relations 
in  her  husband's  home,  and  she  listened  with  a  half -wise,  half- 
humorous  expression  to  Agnes'  confidences.  It  did  not  take 
the  older  woman  long  to  get  a  better  idea  than  Agnes  her-* 
self  had  of  the  state  of  things  at  the  farm.  She  shook  with 
laughter  when  Agnes  finished  a  heated  description  of  Miss 
Margaret's  well-meant  intrusions  into  her  personal  mat 
ters.  "  If  you  two  had  more  work  to  do,  you  wouldn't  bother 
yourselves  or  each  other.  You  ought  to  take  example  by  me, 
Agnes.  Since  you've  gone  away  and  I've  had  less  to  do,  I've 
taken  up  giving  Beatrice  lessons  in  housekeeping.  She 
needs  it  as  bad  as  anybody  I  ever  knew,  and  she  pays  me 
generously." 

As  Mrs.  Sidney  wiped  the  tears  of  laughter  from  her  eyes, 
her  face  underwent  one  of  those  sudden  changes  from  mirth 
to  sternness  which  Agnes  remembered  so  well.  "  I  don't 
know  that  I  would  go  out  to  give  lessons  at  my  time  of  life," 
Mrs.  Sidney  continued,  "  if  it  wasn't  that  I  thought  Beatrice 
needs  something  even  more  than  housekeeping  lessons.  The 
way  she  is  going  on  with  Thomas  Ballington  again  has  been 
a  great  care  to  me,  Agnes." 

The  thought  of  her  mother's  being  assisted  by  Beatrice 
while  she  herself  was  doing  so  little  for  her  caused  Agnes 
keen  suffering.  To  disguise  her  emotions,  she  answered 
hastily,  "  Don't  worry  about  that,  mamma.  It's  only  non 
sense.  Social  forms  aren't  as  rigid  as  they  used  to  be."  As 
she  spoke,  Agnes  remembered  impatiently  how  Ferdinand 
continually  had  thrown  out  innuendoes  about  various  people, 
conspicuously  Tom  and  Beatrice. 

"  Don't    say    '  nonsense,'   Agnes,"    her   mother    returned 


THE    BALLINGTONS  211 

gravely.  "  Whatever  social  forms  may  be,  results  follow 
causes  nowadays  just  as  much  as  they  ever  did.  Beatrice 
and  Tom  can't  walk  on  hot  coals  without  getting  burned." 

Here  Mrs.  Sidney  wrung  out  the  dishcloth,  cleaned  up  the 
sink,  hung  up  the  towels,  and,  after  casting  a  glance  around 
the  neat  little  kitchen,  turned  to  her  daughter,  with  her  hands 
on  her  hips :  "  It  seems  to  me  Ferdinand  looks  a  little  thin, 
Agnes." 

Agnes  smiled.  "  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  he's  been  worried 
about  some  business — a  matter  that's  all  right  now,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  he  took  it  into  his  head  that  he  was  getting 
too  fat  and  began  to  diet." 

Mrs.  Sidney  shook  her  head  disparagingly.  "  I  never  did 
believe  in  dieting,"  she  said,  looking  down  at  her  own  sub 
stantial  form.  "  Vanity  is  at  the  bottom  of  it.  I  think,  too, 
that  Ferdinand  had  better  begin  to  lay  up  treasure  in  heaven. 
Has  he  said  anything  about  uniting  with  the  Church 

yet?" 

"  No,  not  yet,"  replied  Agnes  in  a  low  voice. 

Mrs.  Sidney  cast  a  keen  look  over  at  her  daughter.  She 
was  struck  with  an  expression  of  helplessness  in  Agnes'  face 
which  she  never  had  noticed  before  and  also  a  look  of  em 
barrassment  which  she  did  not  understand.  It  never  occurred 
to  her  simple  faith  that  her  daughter's  attitude  toward  re 
ligion  could  change.  She  had  been  pleased  from  the  first 
with  her  son-in-law's  sobriety,  and  thought  it  but  a  question 
of  time,  under  the  right  influences,  until  he  would,  as  she  ex 
pressed  it,  come  into  the  fold.  Mrs.  Sidney's  pointed  ques 
tion,  however,  suddenly  revealed  to  Agnes  how  great  a  change 
had  been  effected  in  her  by  a  few  weeks'  critical  reading  and 
correspondence  with  Miriam  Cass.  She  was  embarrassed  to 
find  that  her  old  eagerness  for  Ferdinand's  formal  profes 
sion  had  fallen  into  the  background  of  her  thought. 

Mrs.  Sidney,  however,  answered  Agnes'  expression  as  she 
interpreted  it.  "  Deal  courageously,  Agnes,  and  the  God  of 
your  father  will  be  with  you.  Get  Miss  Margaret  to  help. 
When  two  or  three  are  joined  together,  you  know.  And  I'll 


212  THE    BALLINGTONS 

be  here.  You  can  depend  upon  the  Lord's  word  being  true, 
Agnes." 

Agnes  laid  her  hand  affectionately  on  her  mother's 
shoulder.  "  I  know  that,  mamma,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  and 
I'm  trying  to  know  what  that  word  is  more  than  I  ever  did 
before.  Since  I've  gone  away  from  you,  I've  wished  every 
day  that  I  had  been  a  better  girl  while  I  was  here,  and  I 
have  thanked  God  continually  that  I  was  born  and  brought 
up  in  a  Christian  home." 

Mrs.  Sidney's  apron  went  up  to  her  eyes,  and  she  sat  down 
in  a  chair  with  a  sob.  "  It  was  the  Lord  who  put  it  into  your 
heart  to  say  that,  Agnes,"  she  said  indistinctly.  "  I'm  glad 
you  don't  forget  your  father.  Sometimes  I  think  I  never 
shall  be  good  enough  to  get  where  he  is,  to  see  him  again.  I 
don't  doubt  the  Lord's  word,"  and  she  looked  up  over  her 
apron,  "  but  it's  hard  for  me  to  be  humble.  Still,"  and  here 
the  apron  went  down  altogether,  "  if  Stephen  Sidney  had  had 
a  humble  wife,  the  whole  world  would  have  imposed  upon 
him." 

At  this  moment  Aunt  Mattie  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
"  Quinn  had  to  go  on  his  rounds,"  she  said,  "  and  Ferdinand 
decided  to  ride  with  him  as  far  as  the  Buchers'." 

Agnes  was  pleased.  The  visit  had  started  in  well,  she 
thought. 

The  days  went  swiftly  by.  Agnes  was  conscious  of  a  lack 
of  interest  in  her  old  friends  and  spent  most  of  her  time  at 
home,  but  there  was  one  memorable  evening  at  the  home  of 
the  Kent  rabbi,  where,  to  her  surprise,  she  discovered  a  new 
sympathy  with  the  seedy  old  gentleman  who  had  read  Dante 
with  her  father ;  while  his  son-in-law,  who  always  had  seemed 
silent  and  awkward,  suddenly  discovered  a  wide  and  bril 
liant  acquaintance  with  the  topics  most  interesting  to  Ferdi 
nand.  She  sat  back  with  the  rabbi  and  his  daughter  and 
listened  while  the  two  younger  men  talked.  Unconsciously 
she  contrasted  the  thin  subtle-faced  German  whose  ancestors 
two  thousand  years  before  had  kept  sheep  on  the  hills  of 
Palestine,  and  who  had  learned  by  the  experiences  of  his 


THE     BALLINGTONS  213 

persecuted  race  to  regard  impartially  many  hypotheses,  with 
the  successful  young  business  man  who  spoke  for  agnosti 
cism  as  a  partisan.  To  the  latter  it  was  the  one  method.  The 
rabbi  was  listening,  too.  From  time  to  time  the  old  man's 
eyes  lit  up  with  a  fire  that  might  have  meant  anything  from 
anger  to  amusement,  but  when  his  eyes  met  those  of  Agnes 
this  inscrutable  expression  changed  instantly  to  one  of  kindly 
penetration. 

Agnes  was  heavy-hearted  when  the  last  day  of  the  visit 
came  around.  They  were  to  have  a  quiet  evening  at  home 
and  return  to  Winston  on  the  late  train.  Mrs.  Sidney  had 
made  an  effort  to  please  her  daughter's  taste  in  preparing 
the  supper.  She  came  to  the  table  herself  with  beads  of  per 
spiration  standing  upon  her  forehead.  Agnes  looked  grate 
fully  at  her  mother.  The  fair  skin  and  open  pores  pleased 
her  eyes.  But  the  food  almost  choked  her.  She  wondered 
at  the  comparative  ease  with  which  she  had  left  home  upon 
her  marriage. 

After  supper  Mrs.  Sidney  covered  the  table  with  a  cloth, 
saying  she  would  leave  the  dishes  till  after  her  children  had 
gone,  and  they  all  went  together  into  the  parlor. 

"  Well,  Ferdinand,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney  cheerfully,  "  I've 
been  hearing  a  good  deal  about  your  trip  from  Agnes.  I'm 
very  thankful  she  had  such  an  opportunity.  I'm  surprised 
at  all  the  things  she's  remembered.  The  doctor  used  to  have 
just  such  a  good  memory.  I  tell  Agnes  that  the  trip  will  be 
capital  for  her  whole  life.  I'm  very  glad  she  had  it,  and  had 
it  now.  Stephen  always  wanted  to  travel.  I  used  to  think 
the  time  would  come  when  he  could,  but  now  his  days  on  this 
earth  are  done  with." 

Ferdinand  listened  courteously,  but  made  no  reply.  The 
relaxation  of  the  short  vacation  was  over,  and  he  was 
already  considering  how  he  should  best  start  in  the  new  year 
with  his  wife. 

"  Didn't  you  find  Agnes  a  very  creditable  traveling  com 
panion?  "  continued  Mrs.  Sidney,  as  she  looked  with  pride 
and  happiness  upon  her  daughter. 


214 

"  In  some  ways."  Ferdinand  had  no  intention  of  being 
unkind.  He  was  merely  saying  aloud  what  he  had  been  going 
over  mentally  in  considering  their  future  relations. 

Agnes  moved  a  little.  She  had  been  congratulating  her 
self  that  the  visit  had  passed  without  anything  disagreeable 
between  her  mother  and  Ferdinand.  She  was  alive  to  the 
subtle  change  in  her  husband's  mood,  and  pained  at  the  sur 
prised  look  in  her  mother's  face.  She  hastened  to  speak 
herself. 

"  You  know,  mother,  Ferdinand  had  been  all  over  the 
ground  before  and  it  was  rather  tiresome  to  him.  I  suppose 
I  tried  his  patience  many  times." 

"  Tiresome ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sidney,  looking  at  Agnes 
disapprovingly. 

"  I  shouldn't  have  cared  to  cover  the  ground  a  second 
time  for  myself,"  said  Ferdinand,  crossing  his  knee.  "  Few 
people  benefit  by  a  first  trip,  however,  because  they  are  not 
fitted  for  traveling  when  they  undertake  it.  They  are  igno 
rant  of  the  history  of  the  countries  they  visit,  and  they  are 
not  able  either  to  observe  or  to  reason.  Most  people  drift." 

"  Well,  Agnes  didn't  drift,"  responded  Mrs.  Sidney 
proudly,  "  and  her  father  always  said  if  there  was  one  thing 
she  should  have,  it  was  an  education.  Stephen  always  said 
a  well-educated  family  was  the  best  legacy  a  man  could 
leave." 

Agnes  grew  gradually  paler  during  her  mother's  speech. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  husband  with  a  beseeching 
expression. 

"  It  was  unfortunate  Agnes  couldn't  have  attended  some 
high-grade  school  for  a  short  time,"  returned  Ferdinand, 
oblivious  of  the  mute  appeal. 

"  High-grade  school ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sidney,  sitting 
up  straight  in  her  chair.  "  Agnes  had  three  years  at  col 
lege.  She  would  have  been  a  graduate  with  a  diploma  if  her 
father  had  lived." 

"  She's  just  as  well  off  without  a  diploma  from  Winston," 
Ferdinand  remarked,  still  preoccupied. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  215 

"  I've  always  told  Ferdinand  that  my  ignorance  was  caused 
by  my  own  lack  of  thoroughness,"  interposed  Agnes,  trying 
to  avert  an  unpleasant  collision  on  a  tender  point  of  her 
mother's.  "  It  is  not  the  fault  of  the  school.  Neither  is  it 
too  late  for  me  to  learn  now.  I  want  to  learn,  and  Miriam 
and  I  have  begun  reading  together." 

She  felt  sore  toward  her  husband  for  having  made  this 
avowal  necessary  before  her  mother.  Her  color  came  back 
into  her  cheeks  and  there  was  an  intensity  in  the  dark  eyes. 

"  School-girl  friendships  are  very  picturesque,"  volun 
teered  Ferdinand,  looking  at  his  wife  indulgently.  He  was 
thinking  how  well  she  looked  in  the  girlish  pose,  and  he  was 
wondering  whether  or  not  he  should  cross  over  and  sit  beside 
her  on  the  sofa.  "  This  wonderful  Miss  Cass  and  Agnes  are 
going  to  become  great  scholars,"  he  added  amiably. 

"  No,"  said  Agnes,  "  I  never  shall  become  a  scholar,  but 
I  shall  become  less  ignorant." 

"  Don't  you  call  yourself  ignorant,  Agnes ! "  cried  Mrs. 
Sidney,  a  grim  determination  beginning  to  assert  itself 
through  her  hurt  feelings.  "  It's  just  as  wicked  to  slander 
yourself  as  to  slander  anyone  else.  '  Who  hath  given  under 
standing  unto  the  mind?  '  Be  careful  how  you  charge  the 
Lord,  Agnes.  Agnes  is  a  very  unusual  woman,  Ferdinand. 
She's  the  peer  of  anyone.  She's  the  peer  of  a  statesman." 

"  That's  a  pretty  broad  statement,"  replied  Ferdinand 
smiling,  and  analyzing  the  excitement  in  Mrs.  Sidney's  face. 
"  It  would  be  a  dangerous  experiment  to  trust  our  country 
to  statesmen  of  whom  Agnes  is  a  peer.  It  always  has  seemed 
curious  to  me  that  a  woman  of  Agnes'  native  ability  should 
be  as  ignorant  as  she  is.  I  marvel  at  it  continually." 

"  Ferdinand !  Don't  let  me  hear  you  say  that  word  again !  " 
said  Mrs.  Sidney,  raising  her  voice  authoritatively. 

Ferdinand  would  not  confess  to  himself  that  he  was  glad 
of  a  chance  to  speak  with  perhaps  unnecessary  plainness  to 
his  mother-in-law.  He  always  had  been  secretly  nettled  at 
the  misunderstanding  which  he  had  necessarily  allowed  Mrs. 
Sidney  to  have  about  himself  and  his  motives  at  the  outset 


216  THE     BALLINGTONS 

of  their  acquaintance.  Moreover,  her  absurd  complacence 
in  her  daughter's  accomplishments  ought  to  be  corrected. 

"  What  word — ignorant  ?  "  he  said  imperturbably.  "  Agnes 
is — a  very  ignorant  woman.  She  isn't  the  peer  of  various 
other  women  I  have  met,  to  say  nothing  of  the  average  man. 
She  is  very  inferior  to  what  my  mother  was  at  her  age.  Agnes 
has  fair  native  ability,  but  it  is  just  as  she  says — she  has  not 
cultivated  thorough  mental  habits.  Her  mind  is — yes,  I  re 
gard  it  as  in  a  more  undisciplined  condition  than  that  of 
any  woman  of  equal  advantages  I  know — excepting  your 
nephew's  wife,  Mrs.  Fred  Sidney." 

Mrs.  Sidney  stood  up. 

"  Don't  stop  me,  Agnes ! "  she  said  as  her  daughter  ap 
proached  her.  "  As  the  Lord  liveth,  I  shall  tell  Ferdinand 
what  I  think  of  him.  Who  is  he  to  come  among  us  clapping 
his  hands  and  multiplying  his  words " 

She  turned  at  a  slight  noise.  Aunt  Mattie  had  arisen  and 
was  helping  herself  out  of  the  room  by  means  of  chairs. 

"  Never  mind,  mamma,"  broke  in  Agnes,  taking  advantage 
of  the  interruption  and  pushing  her  mother  gently  toward 
a  chair,  "  Ferdinand  doesn't  mean  to  make  you  feel  bad.  Men 
state  facts  without  regard  to  feelings.  When  we  aren't  used 
to  it,  it  hurts ;  but  it  isn't  so  hard  when  one  gets  used  to  it. 
It  is  true  I  am  ignorant,  just  as  he  says,  but  I  don't 
intend " 

Mrs.  Sidney  sat  down.  They  saw  the  tears  start  to  her 
eyes  when  Agnes  corroborated  her  husband's  words. 

"  I'm  glad  Stephen  Sidney  didn't  live  to  hear  his  daughter 
say  this,"  she  said,  the  look  of  a  mortal  wound  in  her  eyes. 
"  After  all  Stephen  did — and  my  scrimping  and  going  with 
out  a  new  bonnet  and  a  sewing-machine : 

"  Don't !    Don't,  mother !  "  Agnes  broke  in  desperately. 

There  was  a  short  silence  after  the  cry.  Then  she  turned 
back  to  her  mother,  and  continued  rapidly,  "  I  never  forget 
it  night  or  day,  what  papa  and  you  did  for  me.  Sometimes 
it  seems  as  if  it  would  kill  me." 

No  one  spoke. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  217 

She  broke  the  silence  again.  "  I  didn't  use  it  when  I  had 
the  chance " 

She  did  not  finish,  but  was  turning  to  leave  the  room,  when 
Ferdinand  spoke  from  the  window  where  he  had  retreated. 
At  his  voice  she  paused. 

"  Agnes  has  taken  the  right  attitude,"  he  said,  with  a  desire 
to  conciliate,  "  and  I  shall  give  her  every  means  of  educating 
herself." 

"  I  ask  for  no  other  means  than  those  I  have,"  returned 
Agnes  instantly.  "  My  mother  is  not  the  only  one  who  has 
made  rash  statements  about  me  to-night.  There  are  other 
women  besides  Beatrice  as  lacking  in  mental  discipline  as  I 
am.  Aunt  Sarah  and  Aunt  Margaret  are  two.  I  don't  know 
the  Landseers,  but  there  are  some  perhaps  who  disgrace  the 
family  as  much  as  I  do." 

"  You  don't  disgrace  the  family,  Agnes,"  said  Ferdinand 
uncomfortably.  "  Ignorance  is  no  disgrace  when  one  wants 
to  learn.  On  the  contrary,  in  your  remarks  to-night,  all  but 
the  last,  you  have  been  a  pride  to  the  family." 

He  turned  again  to  the  window,  and  she  stood  still  in 
silence,  bitterly  appreciating  that  he  had  criticised  justly 
her  last  remark. 

"  Someone  is  coming  in  at  the  gate,"  said  Ferdinand  chang 
ing  his  voice.  "  I  think  it  is  Fred  Sidney  and  his  wife.11  He 
added  more  hurriedly, "  I  did  not  say  I  knew  no  other  women  as 
untrained  as  you,  but  I  knew  no  others  of  equal  advantages." 

He  was  cut  short  by  the  sound  of  the  front  door  thrown 
noisily  open.  A  moment  later  Beatrice,  after  a  resounding 
rap,  blew  into  the  room,  shaking  the  snow  from  her  fur  cap 
and  coat,  her  gypsy  hair  and  scarlet  cheeks  wet  with  the 
melting  flakes.  Fred  Sidney  followed  quietly.  Panting  and 
laughing,  Beatrice  nodded  familiarly  to  Mrs.  Sidney,  caught 
Agnes  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her  on  each  cheek. 

"  We  walked  all  the  way  from  West  Hill,"  she  announced 
breathlessly,  as  she  released  Agnes  and  made  for  Ferdinand 
with  the  evident  intention  of  including  him  in  her  salute. 
"  How  d'ye  do,  Cousin  Ferdinand !  First  we  endure,  then 


218  THE    BALLINGTONS 

pity,  then "  She  raised  her  arms  and  pursed  her  short 

upper  lip  dangerously  near  Ferdinand's  coat-collar.  Then, 
laughing  at  his  expression,  with  a  supple  combination  of  a 
shrug  and  the  graceful  curve  of  the  ballet-dancer,  she  turned 
unexpectedly  and  melted  in  real  affection  upon  Mrs.  Sidney's 
straight  but  unhappy  figure. 

Her  face  was  still  against  Mrs.  Sidney's  cheek  as  she  de 
manded  briskly,  "  Well,  what  have  you  all  been  doing  ?  You 
look  as  if  Ferdinand  had  been  telling  the  story  of  his  life." 

Then,  dropping  her  voice  to  a  whisper,  she  said  in  Mrs. 
Sidney's  ear,  with  an  accompanying  glance  at  Ferdinand, 
"  I  have  two  new  customers  for  your  butter.  Thirty  cents 
the  year  round." 

Giving  the  substantial  shoulders  a  gentle  shake  as  she  re 
leased  them,  she  gave  a  sliding  step  in  the  direction  of  Agnes, 
and,  with  another  venomous  glance  at  Ferdinand,  whispered 
in  her  ear,  "  Go  over  and  talk  to  Fred  and  your  mother.  I 
have  some  business  with  Ferdinand.  It's  about  real  estate." 
The  glib  lie  occurred  to  her  as  likely  to  allay  any  discomfort 
that  might  arise  in  Agnes'  mind. 

Fred  Sidney's  quiet  but  hearty  greeting  did  much  to  dispel 
the  awkwardness  of  the  situation,  and  Agnes  allowed  herself 
to  be  drawn  over  to  the  corner,  where  she  sat  down  between 
him  and  her  mother. 

Beatrice,  meantime,  took  Ferdinand  by  the  arm,  gently 
pushed  him  into  a  chair  and  drew  up  another  one  facing  him. 
Before  they  were  fairly  seated  she  began  a  voluble  conversa 
tion,  asking  his  advice  upon  bits  of  property  which  she 
invented  upon  the  spot  and  described  with  a  flow  of  words 
from  which  Ferdinand  could  not  escape  without  pointed  dis 
courtesy.  He  was  making,  too,  an  effort  at  courtesy  because 
of  the  events  that  had  taken  place  earlier  in  the  evening. 

He  endured  the  torrent  for  about  fifteen  minutes,  then  he 
rose  deliberately  and  stepped  around  her.  She  chose  this 
particular  moment  to  make  a  dive  for  her  muff  directly  under 
his  feet,  which  nearly  threw  him  headlong.  With  an  un 
naturally  long  step  he  partially  regained  his  equilibrium  and 


THE    BALLINGTONS  219 

proceeded  unsteadily  in  the  direction  of  his  wife.  Beatrice 
buried  her  face  in  the  muff  a  moment  before  she  turned  with 
dancing  eyes  to  follow  him.  "  I  wanted  to  ask  you  about 
the  advisability  of  that  artesian  well,"  she  continued  in  an 
uncertain  voice. 

Ferdinand  paid  no  attention  to  her,  but  took  out  his  watch. 
"  I  think  I  will  go  out  and  engage  a  sleigh,  Agnes,"  he  said. 
"  It  is  snowing  hard." 

"  Quinn  left  the  big  satchel  at  the  station  for  us,"  Agnes 
replied  at  once.  "  I'd  rather  like  to  walk.  Perhaps  Fred 
and  Bee  will  go  up  with  us." 

"  We'll  go,"  said  Beatrice. 

"  It  will  be  better  for  you  to  ride,"  replied  Ferdinand  with 
an  air  of  finality.  "  I  shall  be  back  in  half  an  hour."  And 
without  waiting  for  a  reply  he  left  the  room. 

As  soon  as  Ferdinand  was  out  of  the  house  Beatrice,  with 
ready  good-nature,  picked  up  Fred's  hat,  and,  with  a  shrewd 
glance  at  Agnes  and  her  mother,  exclaimed,  "  Wo  must  be 
going.  It  is  a  long  way  home  and  we  must  walk."  After 
a  hasty  farewell,  she  propelled  her  husband  out  through  the 
front  door  by  means  of  a  vigorous  and  supple  hand  between 
his  shoulders. 

Ferdinand  did  not  return  at  the  end  of  half  an  hour,  and 
Agnes  and  her  mother  had  the  evening  together. 

Near  the  end  of  it  Agnes  said  shyly,  '  Here  is  a  little 
New  Year's  gift  for  you,  mother.  Get  yourself  something," 
and  she  laid  one  of  Donald's  packets  in  ]>er  mother's  hand. 

Mrs.  Sidney  hesitated  as  to  how  to  decline.  "  I  don't  like 
to  take  Ferdinand's  money  from  you,"  she  said,  handing  back 
the  roll  of  bills,  but  comforted  by  the  thought  that  her  son- 
in-law  was  at  least  generous  with  money. 

"  This  is  not  Ferdinand's.    It's  mine  to  do  as  I  like  with." 

Mrs.  Sidney  persisted,  but  kindly,  "  I  can  get  along  with 
out  it.  If  the  time  comes  when  I  can't,  I'll  lot  you  help  me." 

"Take  it  for  Aunt  Mattie,  mother !!l  Agnes  cried  in  a 
suppressed  voice.  "  Do  that  for  me !  I  have  a  right  to  help 
her,  too." 


220  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Mrs.  Sidney  caught  the  anguish  in  the  tone,  and,  after  a 
moment's  struggle,  conquered  her  pride. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said  briefly.  "  It  will  be  a  godsend  for 
Mattie." 

Unable  to  control  herself  any  longer  Agnes  hastily  left 
the  room,  ostensibly  to  say  good-by  to  her  aunt. 

When  she  returned  her  mother  clasped  her  in  her  arms. 
"  Don't  get  down  in  the  mouth,  Agnes,"  she  said.  "  The 
Lord  won't  let  you  be  brought  under  if  you  hold  fast  your 
integrity.  Don't  think  He  doesn't  know  what's  going  on. 
The  eyes  of  the  Lord  run  to  and  fro  through  the  whole 
earth.  Keep  your  heart  perfect  in  His  sight  and  never  mind 
Ferdinand." 

Agnes  met  her  mother's  smile,  but  she  said  at  once,  "  Don't 
think  about  that  conversation,  mother.  I'm  beginning  to 
comprehend  Ferdinand  now,  and  I'm  going  to  be  better  and 
broader  for  having  married  him.  Here  he  comes.  Good-by ! 
Good-by!  It's  been  heaven  here." 

She  kissed  her  mother  and  went  down  to  the  sleigh,  where 
Ferdinand  had  preceded  her  after  a  civil  but  somewhat  dis 
tant  farewell  to  his  mother-in-law. 

Ferdinand  tucked  his  wife  in  carefully  with  the  furs,  and 
she  knew  that  his  light  sigh  as  he  sat  up  again  meant  that 
he  considered  that  he  had  done  a  duty  and  that  he  was  re 
lieved  that  the  visit  was  over.  There  was  a  jingle  of  sleigh- 
bells,  a  crunch  of  crisp  snow.  As  they  passed  the  church 
Agnes  heard  the  choir  practicing  a  familiar  New  Year's 
anthem,  and  there  passed  before  her  vision  the  picture  of  her 
father  in  his  pew  with  his  hand  behind  his  ear,  "listening  as 
she  sang  from  the  choir  loft.  The  sleigh  turned  the  corner, 
and  she  looked  back  at  the  old  home.  For  an  instant  she  saw 
the  light  in  the  kitchen-window;  then  the  elms  shut  off  the 
view. 

Agnes  turned  her  face  resolutely  toward  the  north. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ACCORDING  to  Ferdinand's  programme  the  months  inter- 
!**  vening  between  his  marriage  and  the  beginning  of  the 
new  year  were  a  season  of  preparation.  The  first  ardor  of 
the  honeymoon  was  to  pass  by  a  gradual  and  natural  tran 
sition  into  that  permanent  condition  of  orderly  conjugal 
responsibilities  and  comforts  which  were  to  ballast  and 
cushion  his  life  henceforth.  The  heart-burnings,  the  rebel 
lious  starts,  the  spasmodic  agonies  which  Agnes  could  only 
half  conceal  from  him  he  took  philosophically,  smiling,  like 
Milton's  Adam,  "  with  superior  love." 

At  the  beginning  of  the  new  year  he  brought  a  daybook 
to  Agnes,  and  with  some  ceremony  invested  her  with  full 
control  of  the  household  expenses.  Agnes  had  been  looking 
forward  to  this  time,  hoping  that  some  settlement  of  a  per 
sonal  income  upon  her  might  restore  to  her  that  financial  self- 
respect  so  necessary  to  every  normal  mind.  She  was  inde 
scribably  disappointed,  therefore,  even  dismayed,  to  find  that 
the  monthly  allowance  was  for  household  expenses  and  that 
she  must  keep  a  rigid  account  of  every  penny  spent  and  sub 
ject  this  account  to  Ferdinand's  approval;  that  for  her  per 
sonal  expenses  she  must,  as  heretofore,  consult  him  and  be 
allowed  or  refused  as  he  saw  fit.  She  submitted  to  the  inevita 
ble,  modeled  her  bookkeeping  upon  Ferdinand's  system,  and 
as  she  was  naturally  quick  at  figures  the  work  did  not  tax  her 
as  it  had  taxed  Miss  Margaret. 

Ever  since  his  third  call  at  Kent  Agnes  had  known  from 
Ferdinand  that  he  was  assisting  two  families  besides  his  own ; 
his  step-grandmother  on  the  Landseer  side,  and  a  great-aunt 
upon  the  Ballington  side  who  received  equal  contributions 
from  Ferdinand  and  Mrs.  Silas'  household.  These  depend- 

221 


222  THE     BALLINGTONS 

ents  were  discussed  freely  and  impersonally  by  Ferdinand. 
"If  I  had  not  been  prudent  and  self-denying,  I  should  not  now 
be  able  to  support  three  families,"  was  one  of  his  frequent 
remarks  to  relatives  and  acquaintances.  In  listening  to  him, 
his  wife  always  shrank  from  the  thought  that  any  of  her  kin 
might  some  time  be  obliged  to  accept  his  aid,  and  by  so  doing 
become  subject  to  his  comments. 

The  little  gifts  which,  during  her  betrothal,  Agnes  had 
fondly  planned  to  send  her  mother  and  sister  were  not  sent; 
but  they  lingered  as  sore  spots  in  her  memory.  The  privilege 
of  her  girlhood,  to  deny  herself  in  order  to  give  a  present  to 
a  friend,  was  no  longer  hers.  Ferdinand  was  proud  to  indulge 
his  wife  in  such  ways  as  seemed  suitable  to  himself,  and  he 
insisted  upon  luxuries  Agnes  cared  nothing  for,  which  he 
deemed  imposed  by  his  position,  but  the  habits  of  hospitality, 
personal  benevolence,  and  loving  gift-making,  to  which  Agnes 
had  been  brought  up,  were  regarded  by  him  as  faults,  and  he 
held  his  wife  closely  restricted  in  such  ways.  At  the  end  of 
each  month  he  carefully  examined  Agnes'  accounts,  together 
with  his  own,  and  those  from  the  grandmother  Landseer  and 
the  great-aunt  Ballington. 

Agnes  now  had  remaining  the  last  two  hundred  dollars  of 
Donald's  wedding  gift.  Knowing  that  she  had  nowhere  to 
look  for  any  more  money  for  her  private  disposal,  she  laid 
the  balance  away  for  an  emergency,  and  with  almost  a  miser's 
instinct  began  to  cast  about  for  means  to  increase  the  hoard. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  March,  shortly  before  the  birth  of 
her  first  child,  that  she  attempted  an  experiment  with  her 
accounts.  She  watched  Ferdinand  furtively  as  he  ran  his 
eye  up  and  down  the  columns,  and  she  knew  what  was  coming 
when  he  paused  and  looked  up  at  her. 

"  I  notice,"  he  said,  with  a  queer  scrutiny,  "  you  have  an 
item  here  marked  'nine  dollars — personal.'  I  don't  like  to 
have  you  form  the  habit  of  generalizing  in  this  way.  It  is 
slovenly.  Always  be  able  to  tell  where  every  penny  has  gone. 
If  you  put  down  each  item,  you  will  grow  more  judicious  as 
to  what  these  items  are." 


THE     BALLINGTONS  223 

He  noticed  her  color  rise,  and  he  added  kindly,  "  I  have 
learned  this  by  my  own  experience." 

Agnes'  long-rankling  sense  of  injustice  quivered  in  her 
voice  as  she  replied,  "  Ferdinand,  suppose  I  demanded  that 
you  submit  your  accounts  to  me  each  month,  and  that  I  did 
not  approve  of  about  half  of  them."  Here  she  checked  her 
self  and  went  on  more  gently :  "  The  money  which  was  yours 
is  ours  now,  you  see.  You  have  with  all  your  worldly  goods 
me  endowed." 

He  looked  at  her  flushed  face,  and  flushed  a  trifle  himself. 
There  was  a  disagreeable  familiarity  in  his  smile  as  he  said, 
"  You  misunderstand  the  word  '  endow.'  According  to  law 
*  endow  '  means  to  give  a  wife  her  widow's  dower.  My  worldly 
goods  are  mine  while  I  live.  However,"  Ferdinand  went  on, 
giving  her  time  to  realize  that  his  concession  was  voluntary 
and  not  necessary  on  his  part,  "  you  are  welcome  to  look  at 
my  accounts.  The  business  accounts  are  kept  at  the  office. 
My  personal  ones  are  on  file  in  the  second  drawer  of  the 
library  desk.  Here  is  the  key."  He  took  a  ring  of  keys  from 
his  pocket,  detached  one,  and  handed  it  to  her. 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Agnes  went  through  a 
shock  of  sickening  revelation.  Then  she  glanced  at  him  and 
turned  away  without  replying. 

He  still  held  out  the  key  to  her.  "  I  have  no  matters  pri 
vate  from  you,"  he  said,  without  taking  his  eyes  from  her 
face. 

"  You  misunderstand  me,"  she  replied  simply,  and,  with 
out  looking  at  him  again,  quietly  left  the  room. 

He  replaced  the  key  on  the  ring  and  returned  it  to  his 
pocket,  satisfied  to  have  passed  through  an  inevitable  episode 
with  his  usual  success  in  averting  domestic  friction. 

That  night  Agnes  added  nine  dollars  to  her  savings.  She 
handled  the  little  pile  jealously,  feeling  that  it  had  reached 
its  limit. 

About  the  middle  of  April  Estelle  Ballington  was  born. 
Ferdinand  had  expressed  a  wish  that  if  a  daughter  were  born 
to  them  she  might  bear  his  mother's  name.  It  was  the  first 


224  THE    BALLINGTONS 

sentiment  of  its  kind  that  Agnes  had  known  in  her  husband, 
and  she  gladly  complied  with  his  request.  She  was  very 
happy  with  the  baby,  and  in  being  the  recipient  of  Ferdi 
nand's  renewed  devotion.  She  used  often  to  recall  the  look  in 
his  eyes  when  the  child  was  first  put  into  his  arms  and  his 
gaze  passed  over  the  infant  held  close  to  his  heart  and  rested 
upon  her. 

"  He  is  like  an  old  Roman  father,"  she  told  herself  with  a 
smile  half  dependent  and  half  rebellious.  "  The  baby  is  one 
thing  more  to  be  taken  care  of,  brought  up  in  the  way  it 
should  go." 

Every  day  Agnes  longed  for  Ferdinand's  return  at  night, 
and  this  anticipation  helped  her  to  bear  patiently  her  slavery 
to  her  nurse,  her  helplessness  under  Miss  Margaret's  incessant 
attentions,  her  exasperation  at  the  treacle-like  manners  of 
her  fashionable  doctor,  and  Mrs.  Silas  Ballington's  tri-weekly 
calls.  Agnes  had  been  brought  up  in  a  doctor's  family  and 
had  imbibed  unconsciously  her  mother's  sensible  ideas  about 
nursing.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  being  scientifically 
starved  to  death  and  kept  in  bed  like  a  paralytic  when 
she  was  perfectly  able  and  frantic  to  get  outdoors  in  the 
sun. 

At  length,  in  desperation,  she  poured  forth  her  wrongs 
and  the  wrongs  of  their  firstborn  into  Ferdinand's  attentive 
ears,  and  was  promptly  championed.  In  a  few  brief  and  bit 
ing  remarks  the  obsequious  doctor  and  the  insultingly-bland 
nurse  were  prescribed  limitations  which  they  did  not  venture 
to  overstep.  The  head  of  the  house  stood  by  directing  the 
nurse  how  to  dress  Agnes,  and  then  he  took  his  wife  in  his 
arms,  "  as  though  I  were  one  of  the  Sabine  women,"  Agnes 
thought  with  a  grim  humor,  and  carried  her  downstairs  into 
the  garden,  while  the  nurse  followed  ignominiously  with 
the  child  in  her  arms,  and  Miss  Margaret  came  pitter-patter- 
ing  along  in  the  rear,  a  meek  mound  of  cushions  and 
blankets. 

This  triumphal  progress  was  repeated  for  several  days, 
the  masculine  protective  instinct  in  Ferdinand's  soul  being 


THE    BALLINGTONS  225 

mightily  gratified  at  Agnes'  appeal  and  at  his  own  athletic 
ability  to  respond  to  it.  He  felt  a  glow  of  satisfaction  in 
the  creaking  of  his  joints  as  he  went  up  and  down  the  stairs, 
casting  back  deep-breathed  exhortations  to  the  nurse  not  to 
drop  the  baby,  and  to  Aunt  Margaret  not  to  get  entangled 
in  the  blankets  and  so  precipitate  herself  upon  those  descend 
ing  before  her. 

The  convalescence  soon  came  to  an  end,  however,  and  life 
became  vitally  complex  for  Agnes  during  the  following 
months.  She  found  herself  living  both  a  superficial  and  a 
profound  life;  the  first  with  the  bustle  and  worry  and  sweet 
cares  of  a  young  mother's  busy  round  of  duties ;  the  second 
remote  from  this,  in  the  quiet  of  an  elemental  change. 
This  deeper  existence  was  generally  submerged  beneath  the 
eddies  of  the  superficial  life,  unexpected  swirls  produced  by 
conflicting  currents  setting  in  from  unforeseen  sources  and 
intermingling  perplexingly.  Yet,  in  the  midst  of  these 
obvious  perplexities,  Agnes  was  conscious  of  a  slow  and  steady 
movement  of  the  unseen  deep.  Whither  was  that  slow  tide 
tending?  Was  it  to  unite  with  a  kindred  deep  in  her  hus 
band's  soul,  as  in  her  hopeful  moods  she  told  herself,  or  was 
it  drifting  away  into  inevitable  solitude?  Upon  the  latter 
alternative  Agnes  did  not  permit  herself  to  speculate.  She 
felt  that  nothing  she  could  do  could  arrest  now  the  course 
of  fate  once  set  in  motion,  and  so  she  held  herself  cheerfully 
and  pertinaciously  to  her  obvious  duties,  trusting  that,  if  she 
did  not  fail  in  these,  she  need  not  fear  the  unknown  toward 
which  her  nature  moved. 

To  Ferdinand  the  year  was  passing,  on  the  whole,  satisfac 
torily.  Except  in  one  respect  he  believed  that  Agnes  had 
adjusted  herself  to  his  views,  and  his  domestic  life  seemed  to 
be  proceeding  in  serene  accord  with  his  control.  He  thought 
with  complacence  that  in  one  year  he  practically  had  trans 
muted  Agnes'  religious  and  financial  traditions.  Her  bigo 
tries  had  fallen  away  from  her,  her  accounts  were  methodi 
cally  kept,  disturbing  exhibitions  of  temper  and  rebellion 
were  matters  of  the  past. 


226  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Agnes,  too,  sometimes  persuaded  herself  that  she  had 
grown  into  contact  with  her  husband's  point  of  view,  but  this 
state  of  mind  came  only  in  answer  to  an  effort  of  the  will.  At 
other  times  she  was  dimly  aware  of  "  abysmal  griefs  hidden 
under  the  current  of  daily  life  and  seemingly  forgotten,  till 
now  and  then  they  came  up  to  the  surface — a  flash  of  agony 
— like  the  fish  that  jumps  in  the  calm  pool."  When  she  held 
herself  to  the  letter  of  their  original  differences  she  con 
fessed  that  Ferdinand  had  been  right  in  forecasting  her 
development. 

Her  realization  of  the  expanding  and  modifying  pro 
cess  her  views  had  undergone  since  her  marriage  again  and 
again  checked  hasty  judgment  of  her  husband  now  when 
their  opinions  clashed.  When  she  went  deeper  and  began  to 
brood  upon  the  spirit  of  their  differences  she  invariably 
became  uneasy.  All  the  religious,  educational,  and  financial 
questions  at  issue  between  them  looked  at  in  themselves  seemed 
trivial  enough;  but  when  she  regarded  them  as  successive 
phases  illustrating  a  divergence  that  went  far  deeper  than 
any  one  of  them,  they  seemed  grave  and  terrible  manifesta 
tions  of  an  organic,  atomic  repellence.  She  became  afraid  to 
look  at  things  this  way  and  evaded  it  by  keeping  her  atten 
tion  to  the  letter  of  their  discussions.  She  almost  never  now 
referred  to  the  spiritual  contents  of  the  gospels  with  her 
husband,  but  spoke  more  of  dates,  of  disputed  authorship, 
spurious  passages,  verbal  renderings.  Nor  did  she  any 
longer  argue  over  gifts  she  could  not  make  or  purchases  that 
were  discountenanced.  She  accepted  her  husband's  strictures 
in  silence,  and  discussed  with  him  prices,  grade  of  goods,  and 
preferred  shops  for  the  merchandise  he  favored.  In  the  latter 
case,  too,  realizing  her  inferior  judgment,  she  submitted 
usually  to  his  experience,  waiting  quietly  for  the  time  when 
responsibility  would  naturally  devolve  upon  her  trained  and 
capable  judgment.  At  the  best  her  peace  of  mind  was  never 
sanguine  as  was  Ferdinand's.  She  knew  that,  so  far,  she  had 
kept  things  pleasant  by  avoiding  the  disagreeable,  and  that, 
at  any  time  now,  something  not  to  be  avoided  might  arise. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  227 

Hitherto  she  had  put  away  the  thought  of  this  crisis,  hoping 
that,  before  it  arrived,  they  might  both  of  them  have  gained 
wisdom  and  forbearance  enough  to  meet  it  wisely. 

Before  Estelle  was  many  weeks  old,  however,  Agnes  began 
to  realize  that  something  which  it  was  impossible  to  avoid  or 
to  isolate  and  so  deal  with  objectively  had  come  into  their 
mutual  relations.  This  new  element  also  furnished  the  one 
exception  to  Ferdinand's  conjugal  satisfaction.  The  excep 
tion  bade  fair  to  be  an  obstinately  unpleasant  one,  too.  Here 
he  found  himself  in  contention  with  an  instinct  rather  than  a 
tradition  in  Agnes,  and  the  regulation  of  her  maternal  love 
presented  difficulties  of  unreasonable  magnitude.  The  dif 
ferences  which  arose  between  them  about  the  habits  of  the 
baby  at  present,  and  the  vague  foreshadowings  of  later  and 
graver  differences  in  training  a  developing  child,  were  not 
only  more  obdurate  now,  but  seemed  likely  to  be  longer-lived 
and  to  multiply  far  beyond  any  previous  ones. 

From  the  day  when  Agnes  had  appealed  to  Ferdinand 
against  the  nurse  and  doctor,  his  instinct  for  over-seeing 
things  extended  itself  to  the  sick-room  and  the  nursery.  He 
had  enjoyed  the  pride  of  defending  his  wife,  and  his  care  and 
vigilance  were  really  tender  and  were  acceptable  to  her,  but 
as  she  regained  her  strength  and  he  felt  no  longer  any  physi 
cal  demand  for  sympathy,  the  tenderness  went  out  of  his  vig 
ilance,  while  officialism  took  its  place.  Agnes  soon  saw,  to 
her  sorrow,  that  by  once  having  exposed  the  doctor  and  nurse 
to  her  husband's  scorn  she  had  given  him  a  precedent  for  dis 
regarding  their  advice  and  regulations  when  she  gladly  would 
have  observed  them.  "  You  and  I  will  manage  this  child  our 
selves,"  he  said  decidedly,  and  presently  the  young  wife  real 
ized  that  she  was  expected  to  be  as  silent  a  partner  here  as 
in  their  other  mutual  responsibilities.  The  nurse  left  as  soon 
as  possible,  and  they  were  together  without  interference  to 
settle  Estelle's  little  way  of  life  between  them.  Almost  at 
once  their  minds  and  wills  grappled.  On  this  one  subject  all 
through  the  summer  they  remained  under  full  strain,  quite 
quiet,  as  wrestlers  who  are  evenly  matched. 


228  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Meantime,  the  outer  life  of  reading  and  driving  and  smil 
ing  went  on,  while  the  unconscious  baby,  somehow  or  other, 
survived  experiences  which  angered  Ferdinand  and  tortured 
Agnes,  and  managed,  for  all  the  trouble  it  was  causing,  and 
the  vicissitudes  through  which  it  was  passing,  to  bring  a 
wondrous  amount  of  joy  and  love  into  the  Ballington 
household. 


CHAPTER   IX 

morning  in  early  autumn  Agnes  sat  at  her  desk  before 
the  open  window  writing  to  Ferdinand's  dictation.  A 
bough  of  the  old  apple  tree  outside  now  and  then  brushed 
softly  against  the  window-sill,  while  a  ray  of  hazy  September 
sunlight  glanced  fitfully  through  the  leafy  screen  and 
played  over  the  half-written  page.  As  Agnes  wrote  on 
mechanically  to  her  husband's  monotonous  voice,  she  half 
smiled  to  see  the  ethereal  lances  strike  and  shatter  themselves 
against  the  sooty  and  troll-like  words  she  was  setting  down. 

"This  constitutes  virtually  a  ball-and-socket  joint,  unit 
ing  great  strength  with  freedom  of  motion." 

A  warm  gust  of  wind  outside  shot  a  whole  arsenal  of  golden 
arrows  quivering  and  gleaming  to  impale  the  "  ball-and-socket 
joint,"  in  airy  mockery  of  its  grimy  and  laborious  strength 
and  freedom. 

Agnes'  smile  deepened,  and,  as  Ferdinand  paused  to  con 
sider  his  next  sentence,  her  eyes  strayed  out  into  the  green 
shadow  of  the  apple  tree,  and  rested  there.  She  had  recovered 
full  strength  and  animation,  and  there  was  a  fullness  and  gen 
tleness  of  sympathy  in  her  expression  that  lent  a  new  charm 
and  dignity  to  the  brilliance  and  vigor  of  her  girlhood. 

She  was  so  lost  in  her  musing  that  she  did  not  hear  Ferdi 
nand  when  he  resumed,  and  he  looked  up,  half  impatiently,  to 
see  why  the  pen  had  ceased.  Instead  of  recalling  her  to  her 
task,  however,  he  sat  still,  watching  her  with  analytical  admi 
ration.  The  richness  and  delicacy,  the  unconscious  grace  of 
her  figure,  reminded  him  vaguely  of  old  Italian  pictures,  and 
when  a  light  wind  lifted  the  waving  hair  a  moment  on  the  tem 
ples  and  a  sunbeam  passed  waveringly  across  her  dark  eyes, 
the  breeze  seemed  to  bring  with  it  out  of  the  past  a  fleeting 
memory  of  a  ford  across  a  country  stream  with  the  wind  lift- 

229 


230  THE    BALLINGTONS 

ing  the  forest  foliage  overhead  and  the  sunlight  losing  itself 
in  the  brown  water  underneath. 

The  charm  held  him  for  a  moment  only,  however.  Then  he 
rose  and  stretched  his  arms,  breathing  deep  with  the  relief  of 
a  change  of  position. 

With  a  start  Agnes  came  back  to  herself.  "  I'm  afraid  I'm 
absent-minded,"  she  said  apologetically.  "You're  not 
through,  are  you  ?  " 

Without  answering,  Ferdinand  came  and  stood  behind  her 
chair. 

"  Isn't  that  a  new  picture?  "  he  asked,  pointing  at  a  small 
etching  on  top  of  her  desk.  As  he  spoke,  his  eye  compared  it 
with  another  one  of  the  same  size  in  a  similar  frame  which 
stood  beside  it. 

Agnes  reached  up,  took  down  the  etching,  and  looked  at  it 
with  pride.  "  Yes,  it  is  new,"  she  said,  "  and  isn't  it  beau 
tiful?" 

Ferdinand  bent  over  to  look  at  it  with  her.  It  was  an 
etching  of  the  portrait  of  Huxley  with  the  skull  in  his  hand. 
As  Ferdinand  scrutinized  the  strong,  nervous  face,  the  de 
termination  and  grace  of  the  pose,  his  eye  went  back  again 
curiously  to  the  companion  picture  on  the  desk — Booth  as 
Hamlet,  with  the  skull  in  his  hand. 

"  When  did  you  set  up  in  the  undertaking  business  ?  "  he 
said  at  last,  straightening  up  and  looking  down  at  her. 
"  Haven't  you  a  new  frame  on  that  Hamlet?  " 

Agnes  put  the  Huxley  back  on  the  desk,  then  turned  to  her 
husband.  "  Miriam  sent  me  the  Huxley  last  week.  It's  an 
artist's  proof.  You  remember  Tom  gave  me  the  Hamlet  my 
last  birthday.  When  I  showed  him  the  Huxley,  he  asked  me 
to  let  him  take  the  two  and  get  them  framed  alike,  for  an 
equinoctial  present.  They  just  came  to-day.  Tom  has  good 
instincts,"  she  added  reflectively,  turning  back  to  the  etching. 
"  He  saw  at  once  the  poetic  affinity  of  those  two  pictures." 

Ferdinand  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  turned  away. 
"  All  the  relation  I  see  between  Hamlet  and  Huxley  is  that 
their  names  begin  with  '  H.'  " 


THE     BALLINGTONS  231 

As  he  spoke  he  paused  beside  a  bowl  of  white  roses  on  the 
table.  After  a  moment  he  took  one  of  his  hands  out  of 
his  pocket  and  touched  the  roses  delicately  as  he  counted 
them. 

"  Donald  sent  you  these  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  at  his  wife 
over  his  shoulder. 

The  almost  imperceptible  emphasis  on  the  word  "  Donald  " 
arrested  Agnes'  attention.  She  looked  up  instantly  and  met 
his  gaze.  "  You  saw  him  give  them  to  me  yesterday  at  the 
shop,"  she  said.  "He  bought  them  of  the  cripple  at  the 
door." 

As  she  returned  her  husband's  look  something  in  his  ex 
pression  embarrassed  her,  and  to  her  annoyance  she  felt  her 
self  blushing.  Donald  had  been  in  the  habit  of  sending 
flowers  to  the  house  not  infrequently,  and  Ferdinand  had 
accepted  it  naturally  enough  at  first,  until  a  slight  circum 
stance  in  the  spring  had  irritated  him.  As  it  happened, 
Donald  was  the  first  to  send  Agnes  flowers  after  Estelle's 
birth,  and  Agnes  noticed  at  the  time  that  Ferdinand  resented 
deeply  the  fact  that  Donald's  roses  came  before  it  had 
occurred  to  himself  to  get  any.  He  had  occasionally  com 
mented  upon  the  episode  since,  and  they  both  instinctively 
thought  of  it  now.  As  he  turned  his  eyes  away,  she  dropped 
hers  to  the  desk,  and  began  to  sort  and  arrange  the  papers 
scattered  over  it. 

"  The  baby  is  six  months  old  now,  Ferdinand,  and,  much  as 
I  regret  it,  she  will  have  to  be  weaned.  Mother  wrote  me 
that  she  would  help  me  if  I  could  come  down  to  Kent  for  a 
week." 

Ferdinand  walked  the  length  of  the  room  before  he  replied. 
"  I  believe  I'll  take  you  down,"  he  said  reflectively.  "  I  rather 
want  to  see  that  young  doctor  again." 

"Who?  Quinn?"  said  Agnes  in  surprise.  She  was  won 
dering  at  her  husband's  unusual  friendship  for  her  father's 
silent  young  assistant. 

"I  don't  know  when  I've  met  a  physician  with  so  good 
mechanical  ideas,"  continued  Ferdinand.  "  He  has  a  little 


232  THE    BALLINGTONS 

surgical  contrivance  that  I  might  as  well  get  patented  and 
put  on  the  market  at  the  same  time  I'm  putting  through  my 
own  invention.  I  think  he  has  a  good  thing  and  I'm  inclined 
to  take  an  interest  in  it." 

"  My  father  suggested  it,"  said  Agnes  eagerly.  "  Quinn 
is  only  completing  it." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  said  Ferdinand,  pausing  in  his  walk. 

"  Papa  invented  a  number  of  things,  but  he  gave  them  all 
to  the  profession.  He  didn't  think  it  was  right  to  patent 
them." 

Ferdinand  resumed  his  walk,  vouchsafing  no  reply  to  this 
weak-minded  sentiment. 

Presently  the  summons  came  for  luncheon,  and  they 
went  down,  meeting  Miss  Margaret  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
She  was  just  coming  in  from  outdoors  in  a  state  of  secret 
elation.  As  soon  as  they  were  seated  at  the  table  Ferdinand 
turned  to  his  aunt. 

"Wasn't  that  Flynn's  wife  I  saw  you  talking  with  a  few 
moments  ago  out  in  front?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

"  Yes — yes,  dear,  she  was  here,"  answered  Miss  Balling- 
ton  with  visible  embarrassment.  "You  don't  object  to  her 
coming  here,  do  you,  Ferdinand  ?  " 

"  What  did  she  want  ?  "  he  returned  immovably. 

Miss  Margaret  hesitated.  "  She  was  begging.  They  are 
having  a  terrible  time  since  her  husband  has  been  out  of  work ; 
a  terrible  time,  Ferdinand.  Some  of  the  time  the  children 
have  only  dry  bread  to  eat,  dry  bread." 

Ferdinand  disregarded  his  aunt's  appeal.  "I  don't  wish 
you  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the  family.  Tell  her  so,  if 
she  comes  again." 

Miss  Margaret's  face  fell,  but  she  persisted  faintly,  "  Yes, 
dear,  if  you  really  mean  it.  The  baby  has  no  milk." 

"  I  mean  it." 

"  The  baby  has  no  milk,  dear."  It  was  a  last  frightened 
expostulation. 

"Fiynn  knows  how  he  can  get  it,"  answered  Ferdinand 
grimly. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  233 

"  Ferdinand  is  going  to  take  me  out  riding  this  afternoon, 
Aunt  Margaret,"  interposed  Agnes.  "  Wouldn't  you  like  to 
go?  We  can  take  the  drag  and  call  for  someone  else — Miss 
Sewell,  if  you  like.  You  could  have  a  nice  visit  with  her  in 
the  back  seat,  while  Ferdinand  tells  me  about  Professor  Dim- 
mock's  lecture  in  front !  "  She  looked  at  her  husband  in  the 
hope  that  he  would  second  the  invitation. 

"  You  dear  child ! "  exclaimed  Miss  Margaret,  beaming, 
"  how  sweet  in  you  to  want  me !  But  you  shall  have  the  phae 
ton  all  to  yourselves,  dear.  Sarah  is  going  to  bring  over 
her  work  this  afternoon.  She  is  coming  early.  There's  the 
bell  now." 

A  moment  later  Mrs.  Silas  Ballington  entered  and  was 
greeted  effusively  by  Miss  Margaret,  who  tripped  around 
the  table  to  meet  her. 

"  Ferdinand  and  Agnes  are  going  to  drive,  Sarah,"  she 
said  at  once  to  her  sister-in-law.  And  then,  turning  to  her 
nephew,  she  asked,  "  Would  you  just  as  soon  go  by  the  stores, 
Ferdinand,  and  get  me  a  bottle  of  witch-hazel?  "  , 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Ferdinand  with  civility.  "  Is  there 
anything  else  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Margaret,  taking  advantage  of  the  unex 
pected  opportunity,  "I'd  like  a  box  of  blue  notepaper,  and 

— and Her  courage  suddenly  evaporated.  "  That's 

all,"  she  finished  weakly. 

"  What  else  do  you  want,  Aunt  Margaret  ?  "  asked  Agnes 
when  Ferdinand  had  left  the  room.  "  Tell  me.  I'll  see  that 
Ferdinand  gets  it." 

"  You  dear  child.  Isn't  she  sweet  to  me,  Sarah?  I  do  want 
a  spool  of  that  little  baby-ribbon,  pink,  or  bird's-egg  blue,  or 
corn-color.  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  which." 

"  Margaret,"  said  Mrs.  Ballington,  looking  at  the  little 
woman  with  a  patronizing  pity,  "  it's  absurd  the  way  you 
have  to  tell  Ferdinand  every  time  you  want  a  spool  of  thread. 
You  ought  to  make  him  give  you  some  pin-money.  I  shouldn't 
tolerate  such  a  system." 

"  But  I  like  it,  Sarah,"  Miss  Margaret  said  with  loyal 


234  THE    BALLINGTONS 

mendacity.  "  It  saves  me  so  much  trouble.  I  never  cared  for 
shopping  anyway." 

Agnes'  heart  ached  as  she  looked  at  her  aunt.  She  knew 
that  the  little  woman  was  never  so  happy  as  when  fussing 
about  the  fancy  stores. 

"Well!  I  shouldn't  like  it,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Ballington, 
waving  her  lorgnette.  "  I  feel  free  to  say  that  I  should  not 
enjoy  it  in  the  least.  It's  fortunate  that  you — and  Agnes 
—do." 

Her  prominent  eyes  swept  by  Miss  Ballington  and  chal 
lenged  the  younger  woman.  Agnes  returned  her  look  steadily, 
and  the  prominent  eyes  wavered  and  turned  away. 

"  There's  Ferdinand  at  the  gate,"  broke  in  Miss  Margaret 
nervously,  looking  through  the  window. 

Mrs.  Ballington  turned  to  her.  "  Since  you  have  no  nurse 
I  suppose  we  are  to  take  care  of  Estelle,"  she  said  pointedly. 

"  Oh,  I  love  the  baby,"  exclaimed  Miss  Margaret  instantly. 
"  I'd  love  to  have  her  with  us,  but  she's  asleep  now.  When 
Eliza  has  the  dishes  washed,  she's  going  to  wheel  her  out  in 
the  park." 

"Eliza  has  her  hands  full,"  remarked  Mrs.  Ballington 
when  Agnes  had  left  them.  "  You  look  out,  Margaret.  She'll 
strike  for  more  wages."  Her  voice  dropped  its  society  tone 
when  the  door  closed. 

"  It's  because  no  other  girl  can  get  along  with  Eliza,  Sarah, 
that  we  don't  have  a  second  girl,"  replied  Miss  Margaret 
earnestly.  "  The  little  time  Agnes  had  a  nurse  Eliza  and  she 
had  a  hand-to-hand  fight " 

"Well,  wasn't  it  Eliza's  fault?"  broke  in  Mrs.  Ballington 
aggressively. 

"  I  don't  doubt  it  was.  But  Ferdinand  thought I 

presume  he  was  right.  I  didn't  witness  the  fight  myself. 
Shall  we  sew  upstairs  ?  "  Miss  Margaret  suddenly  broke  off 
and  changed  the  painful  subject. 

They  went  up  to  Miss  Ballington's  room  and  settled  them 
selves  for  the  afternoon.  As  they  sewed  Mrs.  Ballington 
catechised  Miss  Ballington  as  to  the  past,  present,  and  future 


THE    BALLINGTONS  235 

of  the  family  plans.  She  regretted  to  see  that  Estelle  had 
no  teeth.  Tom  had  one  at  four  months,  but  he  was  a  very 
remarkable  child,  and  she  should  not  expect  the  same  of 
Estelle  perhaps.  It  was  time,  however,  that  Estelle  showed 
an  inclination  to  creep.  It  was  time,  too,  that  Agnes  should 
call  again  upon  Mrs.  Mortimer  Tompkins,  and  Miss  Mar 
garet  ought  to  see  to  it  that  Agnes  kept  her  social  engage 
ments  better  than  she  had  been  doing.  People  were  begin 
ning  to  talk  about  her  eccentricities  as  well  as  Ferdinand's. 
"I  am  pleased  to  see,  however,"  she  finished  approvingly, 
"  that  Agnes  has  given  up  her  music.  It  shows  some  atten 
tion  to  the  baby." 

Before  she  had  been  there  an  hour  Mrs.  Silas  had  reduced 
Miss  Margaret  to  the  state  of  mental  disintegration  and 
indiscriminate  apology  for  herself  and  everybody  else  which 
usually  followed  upon  her  sister-in-law's  visits.  She  now 
proceeded  to  fill  up  the  bewildered  little  woman's  brain  with 
gossip.  She  informed  her  of  the  return  of  Fred  and  Beatrice 
from  their  summer's  trip  to  Europe,  adding  that  the  young 
couple  were  seriously  divided  on  the  question  of  Fred's  return 
to  the  bank.  Tom  had  been  appealed  to  by  Beatrice  to  talk 
to  Fred  on  the  subject,  but  had  promptly  packed  his  grip 
and  left  the  city  on  a  vacation.  Her  son  had  dropped  the 
remark  before  he  left  that  Fred  could  clerk  it  in  the  infernal 
regions  for  all  he  cared.  The  dowager  sighed  regretfully 
because  Donald  had  not  more  of  his  younger  brother's  spirit. 
"  Donald  is  very  wearing  to  live  with ;  he  is  like  his  father  in 
many  ways.  Here  he  might  marry  Geraldine  Tompkins,  and 
he  prefers  to  go  around  with  the  face  of  a  grave-digger,  say 
ing  he  doesn't  care  to  marry." 

Mrs.  Silas  then  referred  to  the  approaching  visit  of  Agnes' 
mother.  Miss  Margaret  had  not  heard  anything  of  it,  and 
expressed  her  surprise,  whereupon  the  dowager  smiled  mean 
ingly.  Probably  Agnes  was  ashamed  of  her  mother  and  was 
keeping  her  visit  a  secret  as  long  as  possible.  Everybody 
knew  Mrs.  Sidney  was  an  ignorant  and  undesirable  connec 
tion.  As  for  Mrs.  Silas  herself,  she  intended  to  be  out  of  the 


236  THE    BALLINGTONS 

city  while  Mrs.  Sidney  was  in  it,  and  she  advised  Miss 
Margaret  to  accompany  her. 

The  little  lady  was  overcome  on  the  spot  by  a  vision  of 
Agnes'  mother  descending  like  a  bird  of  prey  on  her  peaceful 
home,  but  she  bravely  replied  to  her  sister-in-law's  invitation 
by  stating  her  intention  to  stay  and  entertain  Ferdinand's 
mother-in-law  "  as  though  she  were  the  first  lady  in  the  land, 
Sarah.  We  can  never  forget  that,  whatever  else  she  may  be, 
she  is  little  Estelle's  grandmother." 

Meantime,  Ferdinand  and  Agnes  were  driving  through  one 
of  the  beautiful  suburbs  of  the  city.  They  had  conversed 
fitfully  on  indifferent  subjects,  but  Ferdinand  had  been  brood 
ing  over  Donald's  flowers  to  Agnes  and  her  blush  when  he  had 
referred  to  them.  His  irritation  had  extended  to  Tom's 
frames,  which  Donald,  of  course,  would  have  to  pay  for.  The 
insulting  spendthriftiness  which  could  not  find  enough  legal 
holidays  to  celebrate  with  presents,  but  must  needs  compli 
ment  the  movement  of  the  seasons,  was  insufferable.  Then 
there  was  Flynn's  wife  flaunting  Flynn's  impudence  in  the 
very  bosom  of  his  family!  While  Ferdinand  was  brooding 
over  these  things,  a  letter  which  he  had  received  that  morning 
occurred  to  him  as  suggesting  a  new  grievance. 

"  You  remember  Frank  Rousseau  ? "  he  asked,  watching 
Agnes  narrowly  as  he  spoke. 

The  color  crept  slowly  into  Agnes'  face.  "  Mr.  Rousseau 
whom  we  met  in  Switzerland?"  she  asked.  "Yes.  I  remem 
ber  him  well." 

"  He  is  coming  to  Winston  on  business  soon.  I  am  think 
ing  of  asking  him  to  the  house  for  a  few  days." 

Agnes  said  nothing. 

"  You  would  like  me  to  ask  him  to  stay  with  us  ?  "  per 
sisted  Ferdinand. 

"  No,  I  should  not  like  it,"  Agnes  returned  in  a  low  voice. 

"  What  is  your  objection?  " 

"  Mr.  Rousseau's  manner  at  the  close  of  that  evening  was 
not  gentlemanly,"  she  forced  herself  to  reply. 

Ferdinand  leaned  back  in  the  phaeton.     "It  is  curious," 


THE    BALLINGTONS  237 

he  said  slowly,  "  that  men  always  are  considered  the  aggres 
sors  in  such  affairs.  He  never  would  have  looked  at  you  as  he 
did  if  you  had  not  led  him  on  by  flirting  with  him." 

Agnes  looked  at  her  husband  in  astonishment.  "Flirting 
with  him !  I  have  never  flirted  with  men." 

"  It  was  quite  decorous,  of  course,"  her  husband  replied 
in  the  same  tone. 

The  remainder  of  the  drive  was  almost  without  conversa 
tion.  Agnes  listened  to  the  sharp,  clean  foot-falls  of  Dan  on 
the  earth  road,  and  lived  over  again  the  evening  at  Lucerne. 
She  remembered  her  exhilaration  consequent  upon  her  hus 
band's  early  demonstrations  of  emotion,  her  desire  to  call  his 
feeling  into  play  that  night,  her  conversation  with  Mr.  Rous 
seau,  and  what  followed.  She  recalled  Ferdinand's  quiet  pose 
and  control. 

When  they  were  nearly  home  she  spoke  again.  "  Ferdinand, 
she  said  reluctantly,  "  I  think  it  is  true  that  I  did  coquette 
with  Mr.  Rousseau.  I  am  ashamed  of  it." 

She  saw  Ferdinand's  face  change  as  soon  as  she  had  spoken. 
When  he  spoke,  however,  his  voice  was  under  control.  "I 
admire  your  honesty,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  the  only  time  that  I  ever  was  guilty  of  that,  and  I 
am  sorry." 

An  expression  she  was  familiar  with,  but  which  she  had 
never  understood,  came  across  his  face. 

"  The  fault,  perhaps,  is  mine  in  having  introduced  such  a 
man  as  Rousseau  to  you.  The  best  thing  men  and  women  can 
do  is  to  be  honest,  and  now  that  you  have  become  so,  I  will 
endeavor  to  keep  you  out  of  temptation." 

"Ferdinand!"  cried  Agnes  in  alarm.  "You  don't 

think "  She  drew  away  from  him  into  the  corner  of  the 

carriage. 

When  she  had  mastered  her  indignation  enough  to  think, 
she  finally  spoke.  There  was  a  strong  reminiscence  of  Mrs. 
Sidney  in  the  manner,  and  of  Dr.  Sidney  in  the  matter,  of  her 
remarks.  "Ferdinand,  you  have  been  telling  me  for  some 
time  about  my  faults.  Now  I  have  been  noticing  that  there  is 


238  THE    BALLINGTONS 

a  streak  of  coarseness  in  much  that  you  say  and  think.  I  have 
observed  it  in  your  remarks  about  other  people,  but  it  is 
especially  brought  home  to  me  now  that  you  are  beginning  to 
apply  it  to  me.  You  seem  to  like  to  degrade  human  nature 
and  to  think  it  is  a  mark  of  your  superiority.  It  isn't, 
though.  It  is  a  sign  of  moral  degeneration,  and  if  you  don't 
rid  yourself  of  it  speedily  your  evil  imagination  will  con 
taminate  your  actions." 

Ferdinand  had  the  confused  sensation  of  a  commander-in- 
chief  who  has  been  halted  suddenly  on  the  picket-line  by  a 
private  whom  he  has  himself  placed  on  duty. 

He  rallied  himself,  however,  and  replied,  "  Far  from  being 
a  mark  of  moral  degeneration,  it  is  a  mark  of  honesty.  You 
sugar-coat  every  unpalatable  truth.  Now,  I  see  life  as  it  is, 
no  matter  whether  I  like  it  or  not.  You  call  that  being 
coarse." 

"You  see  life  as  it  is  not,"  she  replied  stolidly.  "You 
misrepresent  me  in  such  a  way  that  you  insult  us  both.  I  must 
insist  upon  one  thing.  I  sometimes  sought  the  admiration  of 
men  before  my  marriage,  and  that  once  afterwards,  but  I 
never  should  have  been  in  danger  of  anything  more." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  assisted  her  from  the  carriage,  and 
drove  to  the  barn. 

Agnes  went  directly  to  her  room,  where  she  remained  with 
her  baby  until  dinner. 

Mr.  Rousseau  came  to  Winston  and  went  away,  but  he  did 
not  come  to  the  Ballingtons',  whether  because  he  had  received 
no  invitation  or  had  declined  one  Agnes  never  knew. 


CHAPTER   X 

AUTUMN  was  almost  over;  the  ground  was  covered  with 
crimson  leaves,  and  the  sky  crossed  by  sailing  lines  of 
birds.  A  bacchanalian  frieze  of  scarlet  woodbine  and  yellow 
ing  wildgrape,  ripe  with  purple  berries  just  ready  to  drop 
from  their  stems,  framed  Mrs.  Sidney's  veranda.  It  was 
tangled  here  and  there  with  bronzed  honeysuckle  sprays  still 
bearing  one  or  two  late  clusters  of  flowers.  The  autumn  wind, 
which  was  lifting  the  leaves  from  off  the  old  maples  and  elms 
and  floating  them  down  like  the  spirits  of  carbuncles  and 
topazes  through  the  smoke-veiled  air,  touched  Agnes'  cheeks 
with  color  and  blew  her  hair  about  her  face  as  she  sat  on  her 
mother's  porch,  surrounded  by  some  leather-bound  volumes. 
Ferdinand  sat  near  her,  smoking. 

"  I  still  can  follow  the  Latin,  I  see,"  she  said,  looking  up  at 
her  husband,  "  but  I'll  never  be  able  to  read  any  of  these,"  and 
she  held  up  a  volume  of  Sophocles  bound  in  rich  but  faded 
green  leather. 

Ferdinand  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  to  answer  her. 
"You  will  have  that  much  less  lumber  in  your  mind.  It's 
curious  how  people  go  on  loading  their  minds  with  exploded 
ideas  two  thousand  years  old." 

Agnes  went  on  with  her  work  without  replying.  She  had 
been  aware  vaguely  when  Ferdinand  first  came  out  from  Dr. 
Quinn's  office  a  few  minutes  before  that  his  apparent  serenity 
was  masking  some  annoyance,  and  his  tone,  affable  though  it 
was,  confirmed  her  suspicion.  As  she  turned  over  her  father's 
despised  classics  in  silence,  her  mind  wandered  from  the  Greek 
and  Latin  and  Italian  pages  to  speculations  upon  what  had 
taken  place  between  her  husband  and  Dr.  Quinn.  By  the 
time  Ferdinand  had  finished  his  cigar  she  had  satisfied  her- 


240  THE    BALLINGTONS 

self  that  Quinn  had  refused  Ferdinand's  offer  to  push  the  sur 
gical  invention  and  take  an  interest  in  it. 

As  Ferdinand  rose  at  last  and  picked  up  his  hat,  Agnes 
spoke  to  him  involuntarily,  "Doesn't  Quinn  want  to  go  in 
with  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Ferdinand,  pausing  before  he  turned  to  the 
steps.  "  He  says  he's  in  no  hurry  to  patent  and  that  he'd 
rather  go  slower  and  be  independent."  He  did  not  look  at 
his  wife  as  he  started  to  descend  to  the  yard. 

Admiration  and  trust  in  Quinn  flashed  into  Agnes'  mind, 
but  the  next  instant  apprehension  possessed  her.  Ferdinand 
would  not  forget  the  doctor's  self-sufficiency,  and  this  outcome 
to  the  purpose  which  had  been  chief  in  bringing  her  husband 
to  Kent  might  cloud  over  the  home  visit. 

She  hastened  to  detain  him  with  words  meant  to  conciliate. 
"  Don't  go ! "  she  said  eagerly.  "  Come  in  and  see  mother 
give  Estelle  her  dinner.  She  has  learned  to  drink  out  of  a 
glass." 

Ferdinand  hesitated,  then  turned  back  more  readily  than 
his  wife  had  hoped,  and  they  found  Mrs.  Sidney  and  the  baby 
in  the  dining-room. 

"Don't  let  her  see  you,  Agnes,"  Mrs.  Sidney  warned  the 
young  mother.  She  held  a  glass  of  milk  in  her  hand  as  she 
spoke. 

Agnes  approached  softly  behind  the  child,  and  Ferdinand 
and  she  stood  watching.  The  baby  made  a  little  hitching 
motion  with  her  body  and  leaned  forward  toward  the  milk, 
drinking  a  little  daintily  as  her  grandmother  held  the  glass. 
Ferdinand  looked  on  gravely. 

When  the  meal  was  finished  he  remarked,  "  I  notice  you  do 
not  use  the  nursing-bottles  I  bought.  I  didn't  wish  to  disturb 
you  this  time,  but  I  prefer  to  have  Estelle  suck  her  milk.  It 
causes  a  flow  of  saliva  and  is  better  for  her  digestion." 

"  She  is  old  enough  to  drink  now,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney  com 
placently,  proud  of  the  baby  as  well  as  of  her  own  success. 

Ferdinand  eyed  her  a  moment  before  replying,  "I  prefer 
to  have  her  use  a  bottle." 


THE    BALLINGTONS  241 

"  How  do  you  suppose  I  got  along  before  you  were  born, 
Ferdinand?  "  asked  Mrs.  Sidney,  looking  up  with  a  twinkle 
in  her  eye.  "  I've  taken  care  of  more  babies  than  you've  years 
to  your  life.  It  won't  do  the  child  one  bit  of  harm  to  drink 
her  milk,  and  it's  a  good  deal  easier  for  the  mother.  Nursing 
bottles  are  hard  to  keep  clean." 

"  I  should  not  think  it  very  difficult  to  wash  a  bottle," 
remarked  Ferdinand,  and  Agnes  noticed  sensitively  that  the 
hint  of  a  sneer  was  creeping  into  his  voice. 

She  stood,  her  back  to  the  table,  both  hands  resting  upon 
it,  her  head  slightly  lowered,  as  she  rapidly  thought  over  how 
she  could  ward  off  a  quarrel  between  Ferdinand  and  her 
mother. 

"  You  might  not  think  so,  but  it  is,"  returned  Mrs.  Sidney, 
looking  at  her  son-in-law  openly.  "  It's  a  nice  little  thing 
to  do,  especially  when  there  are  a  million  other  things  to 
see  to  at  the  same  time,  and  it  isn't  just  one  bottle;  it's 
eight ! " 

"What  will  be  the  expense  of  hiring  these  washed  per 
day?  "  inquired  Ferdinand,  feeling  for  his  purse. 

Mrs.  Sidney's  offended  surprise  leaped  into  indignation. 

"  Ferdinand  Ballington,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  your 
self.  I'm  an  old  woman  and  I  know  how  to  take  care  of 
babies.  Estelle  is  my  grandchild,  and  I'm  not  going  to  teach 
her  to  suck  a  bottle  now.  It  doesn't  look  well  to  see  a  child 
sucking  a  bottle.  Come  with  grandma,  Estelle." 

"  I  don't  care  to  discuss  the  matter,  Mrs.  Sidney,"  insisted 
Ferdinand  evenly,  but  with  an  edge  in  his  voice. 

Mrs.  Sidney  picked  up  the  baby  and  crossed  the  room  with 
her. 

As  they  disappeared  within  the  bedroom  Ferdinand  fin 
ished,  "  You  understand  my  wish.  I  want  nursing-bottles 
used." 

Mrs.  Sidney  answered  him  from  across  the  threshold,  "I 
don't  care  to  discuss  it  either,  Ferdinand.  This  child  is  in  my 
house  and  she's  going  to  drink! "  and  the  bedroom  door 
closed. 


242  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"Have  you  any  plans  for  the  afternoon?"  asked  Ferdi 
nand,  turning  to  Agnes. 

She  lifted  her  face  for  the  first  time,  and  looked  at  him  with 
eyes  whose  pain  added  to  their  luminousness. 

As  she  was  silent  he  repeated  his  question. 

Then  she  released  her  hold  on  the  table  and  turned  away 
from  him,  saying  mechanically,  "  Nothing  definite.  Beatrice 
spoke  of  taking  us  to  drive." 

Ferdinand  looked  at  his  watch,  considered  a  moment,  and 
then  said  enigmatically: 

"  It  is  now  half -past  two.  I  am  going  out  on  some 
errands." 

She  let  him  pass  without  replying,  and  watched  him 
thoughtfully  through  the  window  as  he  disappeared  down  the 
street.  When  he  was  out  of  sight  she  returned  with  slow 
steps  to  her  mother. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney,  looking  up  buoyantly  when  her 
daughter  entered  the  room,  "I  hope  I  taught  Ferdinand  a 
lesson."  She  was  hard  at  work  on  short  clothes  for  the  baby, 
and  as  Agnes  sat  down  by  her  she  held  up  a  fluffy  hemstitched 
ruffle.  "He  needs  discipline.  It's  perfectly  ridiculous,  his 
setting  himself  up  as  an  authority  on  babies.  I've  humored 
him  long  enough.  It's  something  new  each  day.  The  child 
can't  suck  its  thumb,  can't  be  rocked,  can't  suck  a  sugar  lump 
or  a  crust  of  bread.  'Farinaceous  food  isn't  digestible.' 
I've  seen  it  digest.  You  mark  my  words,  Agnes,  Ferdinand 
needs  a  good  talking  to  once  in  a  while.  He's  my  son  and  I 
love  him,  but  he'd  better  be  careful.  '  Pride  goeth  before  a 
fall.' " 

"  Never  mind,  mother,"  Agnes  answered  tenderly.  "  It's  a 
little  thing.  I'd  just  as  soon  wash  the  bottles."  And  she 
smiled  with  sudden  warmth. 

But  Mrs.  Sidney,  with  instant  keenness,  rebuked  her 
daughter's  concession.  "The  Lord  helps  those  who  help 
themselves,  Agnes,"  she  said,  her  face  sobering.  "  How  dare 
you  ask  the  Lord  to  bless  you  when  you  shirk  your  duty  to 
your  husband?  I  tell  you  it's  high  time  you  took  Ferdinand 


THE     BALLINGTONS  243 

Ballington  in  hand  to  correct  his  faults  if  you  ever  expect 
him  to  amount  to  anything." 

Agnes  laid  her  hand  on  her  mother's  knee  as  she  said 
quietly : 

"  Ferdinand  isn't  like  papa,  mamma." 

"I  shouldn't  be  talking  to  you  like  this,  if  he  were," 
returned  the  older  woman  undaunted.  "  You  know  what  the 
Bible  says  about  a  man  wise  in  his  own  conceit.  There  is 
more  hope  of  a  fool  than  of  him.  I  wish  I'd  told  Ferdinand 
that." 

Agnes  stood  up  without  answering.  She  was  turning  over 
in  her  mind  the  Bible  words  of  her  mother's  which  had  caught 
her  ear,  "  There  is  more  hope  of  a  fool  than  of  him." 

"  Now,  when  your  new  baby  comes,"  went  on  Mrs.  Sidney 
earnestly,  "  don't  you  begin  by  holding  it  off  for  three  hours 
when  it  wants  to  nurse.  Their  little  stomachs  are  only  as  big 
as  a  thimble.  Look  at  my  thimble  here  and  see  how  little  it 
is.  Does  a  calf  have  to  wait  three  hours  before  the  cow  takes 
it?  I  guess  God's  own  little  image  has  as  good  instincts  when 
it  comes  into  the  world  as  a  calf  has." 

Agnes  came  to  herself  as  her  mother  talked,  and  when  Mrs. 
Sidney  had  finished,  she  bent  down  and  kissed  her  mother  on 
the  forehead.  "  I  shall  have  you  there  to  manage  this  time, 
mother,"  she  said.  She  lingered  a  little,  speaking  of  other 
things.  Then  with  a  change  of  voice  she  said,  "  I  think  I  will 
go  and  dress  for  the  ride  with  Bee."  She  passed  her  hand 
lightly  over  Mrs.  Sidney's  forehead.  "  Do  take  a  rest,  mother. 
You'll  spoil  your  eyes." 

Mrs.  Sidney  pushed  back  her  spectacles  and  pressed  her 
own  hand  hard  on  her  eyes. 

"  Estelle  and  grandma  will  blow  soap  bubbles ! "  she  sug 
gested  the  moment  after,  beaming  upon  the  baby  on  the 
floor,  who  was  looking  uneasily  after  her  mother. 

As  Agnes  passed  through  the  hall  she  saw  a  messenger  boy 
coming  up  the  steps.  Her  heart  sank  as  she  took  the  note  he 
brought,  for  she  recognized  her  husband's  handwriting,  and 
knew  that  what  she  had  been  dreading  was  upon  her. 


244  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"  The  gentleman  said  there  was  no  answer,"  the  boy  called 
back  as  he  ran  down  the  steps. 

Agnes  tore  open  the  envelope  and  hastily  read  the  following 
note: 

DEAR  AGNES: 

Make  your  arrangements  to  leave  for  Winston  on  the  evening  train. 
I  shall  not  be  back  for  dinner,  but  shall  call  for  you  with  a  carriage 
in  time  to  reach  the  station. 

Yours, 

F.  B. 

Agnes  stood  quite  still  with  the  open  message  in  her  hand. 
Grief,  bitterness,  and  anger  raged  in  her  heart  as  she  recalled 
her  long  wait  for  this  little  visit  home,  the  short  happy  two 
days  she  had  had  with  her  mother,  and  the  weary  winter 
ahead  in  the  companionship  of  Miss  Margaret  and  Eliza. 
Then  a  torrent  of  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes  and  she  went  up  the 
stairs  quivering. 

When  she  came  down  she  was  dressed  for  driving.  She 
found  her  cousin  Fred  in  the  parlor  talking  to  her  mother. 

"  Why,  Fred !  How  do  you  happen  to  be  out  so  early  ?  " 
she  asked.  Then  she  recollected  that  it  was  Saturday  and  the 
bank  closed  at  noon. 

"  I  thought  I  should  find  Bee  here,"  answered  Fred.  "  She 
had  left  the  house  with  the  double  carriage  and  should  have 
been  here  by  this  time." 

Agnes  forgot  even  Ferdinand's  note  in  her  eagerness  at 
finding  herself  at  last  free  to  talk  with  Fred.  Except  for  a 
hasty  hand-shake  in  the  bank,  it  was  the  first  time  that  she 
had  seen  him  for  many  months.  He  had  spent  the  summer  in 
Europe  with  Beatrice.  It  was  his  first  trip  and  he  had  taken 
it  as  a  hard  concession  to  his  wife's  insistence.  Agnes  remem 
bered  what  her  own  travel  had  done  for  her,  the  changes  it  had 
made  in  her  views  of  life.  Surely  the  journey  had  meant  this, 
too,  for  Fred,  had  broadened  him,  freed  him  from  his  pro 
vincial  aims  and  brought  him  into  a  more  sympathetic  under 
standing  of  his  wife's  nature.  On  the  other  hand,  the  variety 
and  activity  of  many  weeks  of  traveling,  together  with  the 


THE    BALLINGTONS  245 

success  in  getting  Fred  out  into  the  world,  must  have  quieted 
Beatrice's  restlessness  and  discontent.  How  much  the  summer 
might  have  done  for  both  of  them  in  closing  up  what  threat 
ened  to  be  a  dangerous  breach  in  their  relations ! 

As  she  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down  by  her  cousin  Agnes 
searched  his  face  with  anxiety  and  hope  for  signs  of  new 
interests.  The  glimpse  of  him  at  the  bank  had  told  her  noth 
ing,  while  Beatrice's  manner  during  the  one  visit  she  had  had 
with  her  had  been  jovial  but  inscrutable.  All  that  Agnes 
knew  about  her  cousin  and  his  wife  since  their  return  was  what 
Donald  had  told  her,  and  that  was  that  soon  after  the  Sidneys' 
return  to  Kent  Tom  had  gone  out  to  the  lake  house  to  see 
Beatrice,  and  upon  his  return  had  asked  urgently  for  a  vaca 
tion.  He  had  earned  it  by  months  of  steady  work  and,  accord 
ingly,  it  was  willingly  granted.  Had  Beatrice  herself  put  a 
period  to  their  bohemian  comradeship,  or  was  Tom's  trip  an 
escape  from  her?  Which  conjecture  was  true  neither  Donald 
nor  Agnes  could  tell. 

To  Agnes'  disappointment  she  did  not  see  in  Fred's  face 
the  expression  for  which  she  had  hoped.  He  looked  sadder, 
quieter,  more  ascetic.  It  was  not  the  face  of  a  man  who  had 
grown  into  closer  sympathy  with  such  a  woman  as  Beatrice. 
Rather  it  was  the  face  of  one  who  had  been  settled  more  firmly 
in  his  convictions.  Agnes  was  alarmed  at  the  gentle  and 
refined  fixedness  that  was  becoming  the  habitual  expression 
of  her  cousin's  face. 

"  Fred,"  she  said  impulsively,  "  I'm  sorry  you  came  back 
to  this  country  so  soon.  It  was  your  first  trip.  You  ought  to 
have  stayed  over  there  longer." 

"  I  didn't  wish  to  over-stay  my  leave  of  absence." 

"  I  don't  believe  it  would  have  made  much  difference,"  she 
persisted.  "  Kent  is  an  easy-going  town.  The  bank  wasn't 
suffering." 

"  I  was  away  a  good  while  for  me,"  Fred  returned  with  a 
faint  smile.  "  Beatrice  wanted  to  stay  longer." 

"  I  think  you  might  have  consented ;  wives  like  to  have  their 
husbands  amenable  on  an  outing.  And  then,  too,"  she  said, 


246  THE    BALLINGTONS 

with  a  nervous  laugh,  "when  you  come  right  down  to  it, 
Fred,  what  are  you  in  the  bank  at  all  for?  " 

Fred  flushed.  "  It  is  the  only  self-respecting  course  for  me 
to  follow,"  he  said  doggedly. 

"  Indeed  it  is,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Sidney.  "  Fred  must  fill 
a  husband's  position.  He  must  be  a  bread-winner." 

"  But,  mother,  where  is  the  use  of  winning  bread  for  a  table 
that  can  afford  fruits  out  of  season?"  queried  Agnes.  "If 
Fred  wants  to  win  bread,  he  could  win  a  good  deal  more  by 
letting  Beatrice  set  him  up  in  business." 

Fred's  brows  contracted  irritably.  "A  man  ought 
not  to  be  dependent  on  his  wife  for  everything,"  he  said 
sententiously. 

"  A  man  ought  to  do  more  than  be  financially  independent 
of  his  wife,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney  authoratively.  "  He  ought 
to  rule  his  house.  Beatrice  makes  her  money  in  ways  of  which 
her  husband  does  not  approve.  She  gambles  in  stocks.  She 
uses  that  as  an  excuse  for  some  other  things." 

"  Not  now,  mother ! "  interrupted  Agnes,  lifting  her  hand. 

"  How  long  is  it  since  Thomas  Ballington  was  at  the  lake 
house  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Sidney  sternly  of  her  nephew. 

Agnes  interposed.  "Tom  has  been  away  for  some  time, 
mother,  in  the  Maine  woods." 

"Aunt  Kate,  I  think  we  had  better  not  talk  about  this," 
said  Fred  in  a  controlled  voice.  "  It  can  do  no  possible  good 
and  I  decline  to  hear  it." 

"  Fred,  I  brought  you  up,"  his  aunt  replied  instantly. 
"  I'm  going  to  talk  to  you  as  I  would  to  Agnes,  and  you 
needn't  get  up  on  your  dignity.  You  sit  where  you  are ! " 

Fred  hesitated,  then  leaned  back  stolidly. 

Mrs.  Sidney  went  on  with  rising  energy.  "  It  is  the  mark 
of  a  man  and  a  husband  who  expects  to  be  the  father  of  chil 
dren  some  day,  to  be  the  head  of  his  own  household.  You 
ought  to  make  Beatrice  understand  this.  She  needs  a  con 
trolling  hand.  She  is  good-hearted  and  generous.  She  would 
have  done  a  good  deal  for  me  if  I  had  let  her.  But  she  has 
had  no  bringing  up.  Her  own  willful  desires  are  her  only  law. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  247 

Instead  of  wisely  controlling  her,  you  think  your  duty  stops 
with  going  down  to  that  bank  all  day  every  day,  while  she  is 
out  at  the  lake  with  Tom  Ballington,  gambling  by  telegraph." 

"  I  tell  you,  mother, "  interrupted  Agnes. 

"  You  keep  still,  Agnes !  Gambling  by  telegraph !  When 
your  hours  are  up  at  the  bank,  you  should  go  where  your  wife 
is.  Thomas  Ballington's  hunting-trips  don't  last  very  long. 
When  he  comes  back,  you  should  forbid  him  the  house.  I 
don't  think  he  would  come  again  if  you  did  this." 

A  pause  followed  Mrs.  Sidney's  last  words. 

Then  Fred  said  in  an  impersonal  voice,  "  The  house  is  hers, 
Aunt  Kate." 

"  Beatrice  is  yours,"  returned  Mrs.  Sidney  instantly.  "  If 
you  don't  make  her  feel  that  pretty  soon,  she  won't  stay 
yours." 

There  was  another  stillness. 

Then  Fred  spoke  again  in  the  impersonal  tone.  "  My  wife 
belongs  to  herself.  If  I  should  take  the  course  you  suggest, 
she  would  retaliate  by  a  reckless  defiance  which  could  have 
but  one  end,  the  severing  of  our  relations." 

Agnes  sat  up  and  began  to  speak  eagerly.  "  Fred,  if  you 
allowed  Beatrice  her  way  in  financial  matters,  I  believe  she 
would  recognize  your  right  as  a  husband  to  exclude  unwel 
come  guests  from  your  home.  Does  it  not  seem  that  there  is 
a  needless  irritation  between  you  on  that  point?" 

"  Good  God ! "  exclaimed  Fred,  springing  to  his  feet  and 
looking  down  upon  the  two  women  with  burning  eyes.  "  Do 
you  want  to  take  away  my  last  shred  of  independence — to 
take  away  my  only  shadow  of  authority?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  Agnes  wants,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney 
promptly.  "  If  you  have  got  any  authority,  I'd  counsel  you 
to  use  it,  and  try  to  extend  it  beyond  that  bank.  Be  the  head 
of  your  family,  not  a  bank-clerk." 

Fred's  face  grew  white.  "  Since  you  are  so  full  of 
advice,"  he  said  rapidly,  "  tell  me  this.  How  is  a  man  to  con 
trol  a  self-willed  and  passionate  woman  who  has  grown  tired 
of  him,  and  for  whom,  therefore,  a  legal  release,  his  only 


248  THE    BALLINGTONS 

weapon,  has  no  terrors!  I  tell  you  I  can  do  nothing  with 
her!" 

He  looked  down  into  the  startled  faces  a  moment,  then 
turned,  went  out  of  the  room  abruptly,  and  a  moment  later 
had  left  the  house. 

Agnes  and  her  mother  sat  where  he  left  them,  but  upon 
Mrs.  Sidney's  face  a  righteous  displeasure  was  growing.  She 
was  about  to  speak  when  Agnes  drew  a  quick  breath  and 
anticipated  her. 

"I  have  had  a  note  from  Ferdinand,  mother.  He  is  sud 
denly  called  home  on  business  and  says  that  we  must  return 
to-night." 

Mrs.  Sidney  looked  steadily  at  her  daughter.  "  Agnes, 
don't  tell  me  a  falsehood.  Ferdinand  isn't  going  away  for 
business.  He  is  going  to  take  you  home  because  I  gave 
Estelle  her  dinner  out  of  a  glass.  He  can't  control  his 
ungodly  temper." 

Agnes  did  not  reply,  but  Mrs.  Sidney  had  a  logical  mind, 
and  presently  she  resumed.  "  Well,  I  guess  you  will  have  to 
go.  It's  a  pity  that  Ferdinand  didn't  marry  Beatrice.  He 
might  have  done  some  good  there." 

She  waited  a  moment,  and  when  she  spoke  again  there  was 
a  quaver  in  her  voice.  "  So  he  is  going  to  take  my  daughter 
away  from  me,  is  he,  after  two  days?" 

"  Mother,"  cried  Agnes    passionately,  "  I  won't  go." 

All  that  she  had  striven  to  keep  from  her  mother's 
knowledge  flamed  in  her  face,  and  Mrs.  Sidney  read  it 
clearly.  There  was  a  moment's  struggle  in  the  mother's 
heart.  Then  conscience  triumphed  over  instinct. 

"  Agnes,"  she  said,  "  a  husband  has  the  right  to  say  where 
his  wife  and  child  shall  be.  Ferdinand  is  well  within  his 
rights." 

"  He  has  not  the  right  over  the  child  till  it  is  seven  years 
old,"  interrupted  Agnes,  in  a  tense  voice.  "  The  custody  is 
the  mother's  until  then,  if  she  is  a  good  woman.  Think  of  it ! 
She  bears  it,  and  cares  for  it,  and  suffers  with  it,  and  has  a 
right  to  it  only  for  the  period  of  infancy,  and  then  it  belongs 


THE    BALLINGTONS  249 

to  the  father.  Oh,  the  cruelty  of  it!  A  man  mustn't  touch 
his  wife  with  his  little  finger,  but  he  can  torture  her  mind  and 
crush  the  soul  out  of  her,  and  she  must  bear  it." 

Mrs.  Sidney  watched  Agnes  closely  as  she  was  speaking. 
When  she  had  finished,  the  older  woman  asked,  "  Where  did 
you  find  out  all  these  things?" 

"  In  a  play." 

"  The  theater ! "  There  was  both  grief  and  reproof  in  the 
mother's  voice. 

Presently  she  spoke  again  with  unusual  gravity.  "  Agnes, 
you  have  been  thinking  of  leaving  your  husband.  My 
daughter,  you  can't  leave  Ferdinand.  The  Lord  has  put  a 
work  upon  you.  You've  got  to  sanctify  him." 

"  Mother,  I  have  been  beside  myself  because  he  wouldn't 
let  me  do  for  the  baby  what  I  thought  I  ought  to  do.  He  said 
I  was  training  her  to  cry  because  I  took  her  up  when  she  did 
cry,  and  he  made  me  leave  her  to  scream  all  by  herself  until 
she  would  stop  from  exhaustion.  Sometimes  she  cried  because 
she  was  hungry,  and  sometimes  she  was  sick." 

"  How  did  he  keep  you  away  from  her?  " 

Agnes  did  not  answer. 

"Did  he  tie  you  up  in  a  chair?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Sidney, 
pressing  her. 

"  No,  he  said  I  mustn't  go,"  said  Agnes,  scarcely  above  a 
whisper. 

Mrs.  Sidney  pressed  her  further.  "And  that  kept  you! 
And  you  would  like  to  make  laws  to  let  women  go  away  from 
their  husbands — women  who  sit  still  and  let  their  babies  scream 
because  a  man  tells  them  to  ?  " 

"  Mother,"  said  Agnes,  looking  down  at  her  clasped  hands, 
"  he  would  take  Estelle  into  his  room  and  lock  her  in.  I 
couldn't  get  to  her." 

There  was  a  considerable  pause  after  this  confession. 

Then  Mrs.  Sidney  asked,  "  Why  didn't  you  lock  her  up  in 
your  room  first  ?  " 

"  I  would  when  I  could  get  her  first,"  said  Agnes,  the 
clasped  hands  trembling.  "  He  said  that  he  did  not  want  to 


250  THE    BALLINGTONS 

do  what  he  did,  but  that  I  needed  discipline  as  much  as  the 
child." 

Mrs.  Sidney's  indignation  at  her  daughter's  revelation  was 
counteracted  by  her  alarm  at  the  consequences  which  threat 
ened  to  follow  Ferdinand's  conduct.  She  ran  over  rapidly  in 
her  mind  various  ways  of  dealing  with  him. 

When  she  resumed,  there  was  decision  in  her  voice.  "  Now, 
Agnes,  listen  to  me.  It  isn't  the  law  that  makes  a  home.  It 
is  character.  Once  you  let  the  law  step  in  and  it  isn't  a  home 
any  longer.  Ferdinand  is  your  husband  and  you've  got  to 
love  him " 

"I  do  love  him,"  interposed  Agnes  with  dignity. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  went  on  Mrs.  Sidney.  "  Now  you 
see  to  it,  that,  along  with  your  loving  him,  you  make  him 
understand  that  you  mean  what  you  say  just  as  much  as  he 
does.  You've  got  to  take  your  own  stand.  The  law  can't 
take  it  for  you." 

"  Mother,  isn't  this  a  little  inconsistent  with  the  way  you 
were  talking  to  Fred  a  moment  ago  ?  " 

"  No,"  responded  Mrs.  Sidney  stoutly ;  "  the  cases  are 
different." 

"They  are  indeed,"  replied  her  daughter.  "If  I  had 

money "  She  broke  off.  "  It  does  no  good  to  oppose 

Ferdinand.  You  see  how  much  good  it  did  when  you  held 
out  against  him." 

"  I  am  not  his  wife."  Mrs.  Sidney  rose.  "  I've  got  to  sub 
mit  to  a  mother-in-law's  position."  Her  face  passed  through 
bitter  struggle  to  grim  control  as  she  spoke. 

Then  an  obtrusive  sense  of  humor  manifested  itself.  "  Do 
you  think  it  would  do  me  any  good  to  want  to  make  laws 
upholding  mothers-in-law  ?  "  She  looked  at  her  daughter 
with  a  real  smile  as  the  words  came  out. 

The  smile  faded,  however,  as  she  continued,  "  I  didn't  mean 
to  say  to  Fred  that  a  wife  is  the  husband's  property.  She  is 
his  companion,  and  Ferdinand's  wife  above  all  must  not  be  a 
moral  coward." 

As  she  finished  she  left  the  room  and  went  into  her  bed- 


THE     BALLINGTONS  251 

room.  Once  inside  it  she  gave  way  to  a  spasm  of  weeping, 
which  she  interrupted  every  now  and  then  to  utter  some  words 
of  prayer. 

In  accordance  with  Ferdinand's  demand,  Agnes  packed 
their  trunk,  and  was  ready  to  go  when  her  husband  came  with 
the  carriage. 

"  Good-by,  Ferdinand.  God  bless  you !  "  called  Mrs.  Sid 
ney  from  the  veranda.  But  she  did  not  trust  herself  to  go 
down  to  the  carriage  with  Agnes.  Nor  did  Ferdinand  come 
to  the  house. 

He  was  considerate  toward  Agnes  during  the  home  trip, 
silenced  Miss  Margaret's  questions  on  their  arrival  and  kissed 
his  wife  when  he  said  good-night.  She  accepted  his  caress 
silently. 

Agnes  continued  to  feed  Estelle  from  a  glass  the  following 
day,  but  she  took  pains  to  do  so  when  her  husband  was  out  of 
sight.  It  must  come  to  a  contest  between  them,  but  in 
weariness  she  longed  to  postpone  it. 

In  the  afternoon  a  letter  came  from  her  mother.  She 
noticed  that  her  mother  had  written  a  letter  also  to  Ferdinand. 
He  read  it,  and  handed  it  over  to  her  without  comment,  a 
grim  satisfaction  in  his  face.  Agnes  read  it  with  mingled 
torture  and  admiration.  She  knew  how  much  effort  the 
apology  had  cost  her  mother. 

MY  DEAR  SON  FERDINAND:  I  thought  the  Lord  was  going  to  let  me 
teach  you  a  lesson.  But  I  guess  He  saw  fit  to  let  you  teach  me  one. 
It  won't  do  your  baby  any  harm  to  drink  out  of  a  glass,  but  I'm  not  the 
one  to  say  what  shall  be  done  to  your  and  Agnes'  child.  I  oughtn't  to 
have  interfered,  and  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me  and  bring  Agnes  and  the 
baby  back  to  see  me.  I've  got  a  lonely  heart,  and  I  love  you  all.  I 
pray  God  to  bless  you  all. 

Your  mother, 

KATE  SIDNEY. 

The  tears  streamed  down  Agnes'  face  as  she  handed  the 
letter  back  to  her  husband.  "  My  poor  mother !  "  she  said 
brokenly.  "  You'll  answer  it,  Ferdinand?  " 

"  I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  do  so,"  said  Ferdinand, 


252  THE    BALLINGTONS 

pocketing  the  letter.  "  It  is  no  more  than  she  ought  to  have 
done,  and  it  has  been  a  good  thing  for  her.  You  have  told  me 
yourself  that  she  always  has  been  tyrannical." 

Agnes  remembered  only  too  well.  In  the  first  flush  of  her 
love  for  Ferdinand  she  thoughtlessly  had  made  him  the  con 
fident  of  her  girlish  impatience  with  her  mother,  as  well  as 
of  her  father's  unworldly  ideals  of  life.  Once  more  she  felt 
the  regret  which  follows  impulsive  self -revelation. 

"  I  do  not  regard  Mrs.  Sidney  as  wholly  to  blame,"  Fer 
dinand  continued.  "  The  fault  is  more  with  your  father. 
He  ought  to  have  controlled  her  till  she  was  able  to  control 
herself.  Personally,  I  admire  your  mother's  character  the 
more  of  the  two.  Her  faults  are  the  faults  of  strength, 
whereas  his  faults " 

"  Don't  say  anything  against  papa ! "  cried  Agnes 
abruptly. 

She  walked  across  the  room  and  back  before  she  continued. 

"  Please  write  to  her.  Tell  her  you  will  take  me  back,"  she 
said,  stopping  in  front  of  him.  Then  she  added  deliberately, 
"Won't  you  do  it  for  me?  Won't  you  write  her  an  affec 
tionate  letter  ?  " 

There  was  the  desperation  of  a  forlorn  hope  in  her  face, 
but  Ferdinand  ignored  it.  "  I  have  no  affection  for  her,"  he 
said. 

He  started  to  pass  her  as  he  spoke.  There  was  a  sudden 
motion  forbidding  him,  and  then  Agnes  drew  back  trembling. 

"  Ferdinand,"  she  cried  in  a  vibrating  voice,  "  mother  is 
inclined  to  be  tyrannical,  but  she  is  not  a  deliberate  tyrant,  as 
you  are.  More  than  that,  my  mother  has  risen  above  her  feel 
ings  and  has  made  you  an  apology  which  has  cost  her  a 
struggle  of  which  you  have  no  conception.  A  poor  old 
woman  at  her  time  of  life !  She  conquered  herself.  And  you, 
a  young  man,  a  young,  strong  man,  who  has  won  his  point 
and  disciplined  an  old  woman  who  has  worked  her  eyes  out  for 
his  child,  you  can't  conquer  yourself.  You  can't  even  respond 
to  her  apology.  She  does  love  you.  She  means  every  word 
of  it,  and  you  don't  feel  a  spark  of  pity  or  affection  for  her." 


THE    BALLINGTONS  253 

Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  her  agony  a  memory  flashed  across 
Agnes'  mind.  It  was  Donald's  voice  saying,  "  You  should  do 
for  your  parents  whatever  you  might  wish.  I  can  understand 
the  desire,  and  it  would  be  my  happiness  and  my  honor  to 
gratify  it."  There  was  despair  in  her  heart  as  she  cried 
bitterly  to  the  man  she  had  chosen,  "  Oh,  you  can't  know  how 
you  make  me  feel  toward  you !  I  wish  to  God  I  had  married 
Donald!" 

A  sudden  stillness  fell  over  them  as  they  looked  at  each 
other.  A  comb  that  Agnes  wore  dropped  to  the  floor.  Both 
started  as  though  it  were  a  pistol  shot.  The  soft  and  shining 
waves  of  Agnes'  hair  gently  uncoiled  and  shadowed  her  eyes 
as  they  still  held  Ferdinand's. 

A  new  expression  flashed  into  Ferdinand's  face,  called  up 
by  the  fierceness  of  her  beauty.  In  an  instant  he  was  strain 
ing  her  to  him  so  violently  that  a  low  cry  of  pain  was  forced 
from  her. 

"  Ferdinand,  I  have  never  wished  that  what  I  said,"  she 
said  indistinctly. 

After  he  was  gone  Agnes  sank  back  upon  the  lounge.  She 
began  to  doubt  her  powe.r  to  control  her  moods,  and  she  knew 
that  what  influence  she  had  over  her  husband  would  fade  with 
her  self-control  and  endurance.  On  his  part,  Ferdinand  never 
forgot  Agnes'  outcry.  Before  this  there  had  been  more  or  less 
of  oscillation  in  their  hopes  and  desires  in  each  other,  but  from 
this  day,  although  the  oscillation  continued,  it  began  to  be 
accompanied  with  a  graduated  fall. 


PART  IV 


CHAPTER  I 

L^ERDINAND  never  answered  Mrs.  Sidney's  letter,  but 
twice  during  the  winter  he  took  his  wife  for  a  brief  visit 
to  her  mother's.  Moreover,  although  he  never  yielded  openly 
to  his  mother-in-law's  methods  of  bringing  up  children,  he 
tacitly  gave  way  to  them  more  and  more.  He  had  decided, 
as  have  many  others  before  him,  that  it  is  generally  best  to 
allow  the  world's  efficient  people  to  have  their  own  way. 

In  May  the  long-expected  visit  of  her  mother  to  Winston, 
to  which  Agnes  had  been  looking  forward  with  longing, 
came  about.  Miss  Margaret  had  anticipated  it  with  trepida 
tion  owing  to  Mrs.  Silas'  persistent  innuendoes.  The  latter 
lady  had  carefully  suppressed  in  Miss  Margaret  every  bud 
ding  impulse  of  hospitable  pleasure  as  fast  as  it  appeared, 
and  had  repeated  her  original  assertion  that  she  would  leave 
as  soon  as  Mrs.  Sidney  should  arrive.  She  did  not  leave,  how 
ever,  which  confused  Miss  Margaret's  ideas  well-nigh  hope 
lessly  during  the  first  week  of  Mrs.  Sidney's  visit. 

Mrs.  Silas  herself  regarded  Mrs.  Sidney  with  unstable 
emotions.  She  had  intended  to  stay  in  town  just  long  enough 
to  impress  the  doctor's  widow,  and  then  to  leave  without  hav 
ing  cast  over  her  the  mantle  of  her  own  social  prestige.  Her 
stupefaction  which  followed  upon  the  speedy  discovery  that 
it  was  quite  hopeless  to  impress  Agnes'  mother,  and  that, 
furthermore,  she  herself  unwillingly  was  impressed  with  the 
newcomer,  passed  by  a  natural  transition  into  a  desire  to 
make  Mrs.  Sidney  the  engine  of  social  retribution  upon  the 
distinguished  Mrs.  Mortimer  Tompkins.  For  a  generation 
now  Mrs.  Mortimer  Tompkins  had  been  a  rival  too  wealthy, 
too  small-minded  and  infinitesimal-hearted  for  Mrs.  Silas  to 
get  the  better  of  her.  There  was  a  kind  of  fascination  in 

254 


THE    BALLINGTONS  255 

the  thought  of  watching  the  rival  affronted,  enraged,  and 
finally  routed  by  this  obscure  but  indomitable  person  from 
Kent.  Accordingly  she  gave  a  luncheon  for  Mrs.  Sidney,  and 
her  unconscious  guest  carried  herself  so  well  and  irritated 
Mrs.  Tompkins  to  such  an  extent  that  Mrs.  Silas  then  and 
there  conceived  as  small  a  dislike  of  Agnes'  mother  as  it  was 
possible  for  her  to  extend  to  any  of  her  fellow-beings.  Mrs. 
Silas'  relations  with  her  acquaintances  were  measured  by 
varying  degrees  of  disapproval.  These  took  the  place  in  her 
of  what  in  less  highly  organized  people  were  friendships. 

Mrs.  Sidney  took  an  early  occasion  to  give  Mrs.  Balling- 
ton  a  warning  on  the  subject  of  her  son  Tom's  relations  with 
Beatrice.  Mrs.  Silas  received  the  communication  haughtily, 
but,  finding  that  her  loftiness  had  no  effect  whatever,  a  cer 
tain  hard  common  sense  which  she  had  at  bottom,  and  which 
Mrs.  Sidney  addressed,  made  her  think  better  of  it,  and  she 
agreed  to  use  her  influence  in  keeping  Tom  occupied  away 
from  Kent. 

Miss  Margaret  and  Mrs.  Sidney  became  friends,  and,  ex 
cept  for  the  guest's  condemnation  of  Miss  Margaret's  recent 
conversion  to  Christian  Science,  they  had  no  altercation 
worth  mention.  Miss  Margaret  was  meek  and  deferential 
toward  Mrs.  Sidney,  having  a  bewildered  idea  that  Mrs.  Sid 
ney  must  be  a  great  social  power  indeed.  Mrs.  Silas'  con 
sideration  could  flow  from  no  other  source,  and  Miss  Mar 
garet's  naturally  ornate  phraseology  took  on  an  added  state- 
liness  as  though  she  were  addressing  a  member  of  the  royal 
family. 

The  same  naturalness  which  characterized  Mrs.  Sidney's 
entrance  into  Winston  society  characterized  her  entrance  into 
Ferdinand's  home.  Ferdinand  did  not  interfere  with  his 
mother-in-law  and  was  away  much  of  the  time,  and  Eliza 
met  her  Waterloo  in  her  first  encounter  with  the  guest. 

As  for  Agnes  herself,  the  month  was  one  of  the  easiest  dur 
ing  her  married  life,  and  she  always  felt  an  added  tenderness 
toward  her  little  son,  because  it  was  her  mother  who  first 
laid  the  baby  in  her  arms,  saying  in  a  tone  of  fervent  thanks- 


256  THE    BALLINGTONS 

giving,  "  He's  a  fine,  healthy  boy,  Agnes,  and  he  shall  be 
called  Stephen  Sidney  Ballington." 

Only  one  thing  happened  to  cloud  Agnes'  month  with  her 
mother,  and  this  took  place  just  before  Mrs.  Sidney  left. 
Agnes  knew  that  her  mother  was  worried  over  something,  and 
she  guessed  what  it  was,  for  she  had  seen  Pleasant  Mabie's 
handwriting  on  a  letter  that  had  come  from  the  West.  As 
soon  as  an  opportunity  offered,  she  questioned  her  mother 
as  to  her  news  from  Helen.  Mrs.  Sidney  hesitated,  then  de 
cided  to  tell  the  truth.  The  mortgage  on  her  son-in-law's 
farm  was  about  to  be  foreclosed.  Pleasant  had  written  to 
her,  imploring  help,  but  she  was  unable  to  give  it. 

"I  don't  believe  it  would  be  wise  to  send  Pleasant  money, 
if  I  had  it  to  send,"  she  concluded.  "  He  would  manage  to 
get  rid  of  it  someway  without  paying  off  the  mortgage.  The 
Ethiopian  can't  change  his  skin.  I'd  have  told  him  so,  only 
I  was  afraid  Helen  would  see  the  letter." 

Agnes  sat  still  and  looked  at  her  mother  in  extreme  dis 
tress.  She  was  thinking  of  her  sister's  condition,  with  the 
lassitude  and  discomfort  of  which  she  could,  in  her  own 
weakness,  so  keenly  sympathize. 

"  I  can  just  barely  make  both  ends  meet,"  Mrs.  Sidney 
went  on.  "  Mattie's  sickness  just  about  played  me  out." 

"  You  can't  stand  it,  mother !  You  can't  work  so  hard !  " 
cried  Agnes,  her  anxiety  shifting.  There  was  an  instant's 
hesitation,  during  which  her  heart  was  wrung  by  her  own 
impotence  to  help  in  this  crisis.  Then  she  said  abruptly, 
"  Why  don't  you  let  Beatrice  help  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Sidney  turned  and  looked  at  her  daughter.  "  My 
strength  will  be  as  my  day,  if  I  trust  the  Lord,"  she  said 
with  a  different  tone ;  and  she  added  more  gravely,  "  If  I  ac 
cepted  Beatrice's  money  I  should  be  countenancing  her  way 
of  life." 

"  What  will  Pleasant  and  Helen  do  ? "  Agnes  asked 
presently. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  written  to  him  that  they  can 
come  on  and  go  on  your  father's  farm.  It  would  be  the  best 


THE    BALLINGTONS  257 

thing  they  could  do.  The  house  is  pretty  old,  but  I  have 
had  some  new  sills  put  in  to  support  it.  Pleasant  doesn't 
want  to  do  it.  He  says  people  won't  respect  him  for  com 
ing  back  to  live  on  his  mother-in-law.  Pleasant's  very  par 
ticular  about  his  self-respect.  He's  got  some  fine  pigs,  too, 
and  he  wants  to  stick  to  pork-raising.  If  he  hadn't  paid  out 
so  much  for  pigs,  he'd  have  kept  the  farm." 

Agnes  did  not  press  the  matter  further.  She  did  not  tell 
her  mother  that  she  too  had  received  a  letter  from  her 
brother-in-law  soliciting  her  aid.  The  letter  had  been 
written  without  her  sister's  knowledge,  but  it  narrated  in 
some  detail  Helen's  feebleness  and  discouragement  over  their 
impending  misfortune.  Agnes  had  a  slender  opinion  of 
Pleasant's  financial  ability,  but  she  shrank  from  exposing 
him,  and  her  sympathy  for  her  sister  had  become  a  passion 
since  her  own  marriage.  Her  recollections  of  the  farm  did 
not  encourage  her  to  believe  in  the  feasibility  of  her  mother's 
solution.  It  would  be  impossible  for  them  to  be  comfortable 
there. 

She  thought  over  the  situation  during  the  day,  and  that 
night  she  called  Ferdinand  in  to  her  before  he  went  to  bed. 
It  was  hard  for  her  to  do  it,  but  she  put  down  her  pride,  told 
her  husband  the  situation,  and  begged  him  to  give  her  money 
enough  to  save  her  sister's  home.  As  soon  as  he  began  to 
speak  she  was  sorry  she  had  made  her  request.  He  asked  her 
many  questions  about  the  Mabies,  pinned  her  down  to  con 
fessions  she  never  had  wished  to  make,  and  at  last,  after  elicit 
ing  the  exposure  of  Pleasant's  and  Helen's  condition,  he  said 
that  he  was  willing  to  buy  the  place  himself  and  hire  the 
Mabies  as  his  tenants.  This  Agnes  declined  instinctively. 
She  was  learning  to  dread  a  mood  that  came  over  her  from 
time  to  time  which  made  life  seem  to  her  a  web  where  she  and 
those  dear  to  her  were  caught  flies  and  Ferdinand  the 
spider. 

After  he  left  her  she  could  not  sleep.  All  this  misery  for 
want  of  a  few  hundred  dollars  and  her  husband  worth  hun 
dreds  of  thousands!  She  rose  and  went  to  her  desk  at  last 


258  THE     BALLINGTONS 

to  count  over  the  money  she  still  had  left  of  her  own.  Then 
she  took  out  the  account  book  and  added  in  what  she  had 
saved  from  housekeeping  money  and  which  she  was  holding 
subject  to  Ferdinand's  order.  Even  though  she  could  use  it 
all  there  would  still  be  about  fifty  dollars  lacking.  She  went 
back  to  bed  worried  and  restless. 

In  the  night  an  idea  came  to  her.  She  had  recently  bought 
and  paid  for  some  table-linen  at  one  of  the  stores.  The  entry 
had  been  made  in  her  account  book  and  had  been  approved 
by  Ferdinand.  But  the  goods  had  not  been  used.  In  the 
morning  she  drove  to  the  store  and  asked  the  privilege  of 
returning  the  linen.  The  request  was  granted  and  the  money 
refunded.  Agnes  put  it  with  all  she  had  on  hand  and  sent  it 
on  to  Pleasant. 

One  anxiety  for  the  present  was  silenced,  but  another  of 
a  different  nature  replaced  it,  for  the  entry  of  the  linen  pur 
chased  remained  unchanged  in  her  account  book.  She  had 
yielded  to  a  great  temptation. 

During  the  following  months  this  secret,  her  growing 
worry  for  her  mother  and  sister,  her  at  last  certain  knowl 
edge  of  the  hopelessness  of  any  real  sympathy  from  Fer 
dinand,  the  increasing  difficulty  in  tactfully  managing  her 
husband,  the  loss  of  respect  and  confidence  in  herself,  the 
strain  which  she  was  under  to  dissemble  her  unhappiness  and 
depression,  all  these,  along  with  physical  weakness  and  weari 
ness,  began  to  tell  noticeably  upon  her. 

Ferdinand  was  the  first  to  feel  the  lack  in  her  of  physical 
elasticity  and  mental  buoyancy.  After  waiting  what  he  con 
sidered  a  more  than  reasonable  time  for  her  to  recuperate 
from  her  son's  birth,  he  began  to  make  significant  remarks 
about  the  advisability  of  other  members  of  the  family  besides 
Aunt  Margaret  interesting  themselves  in  Christian  Science. 
He  began  to  take  Agnes  quite  methodically  to  all  the  lighter 
theatrical  entertainments  that  wandered  their  way.  When 
Agnes  expressed  a  dislike  for  vaudeville,  he  replied  that  she 
needed  it;  while  Agnes  observed  that  under  the  pretext  of 
benefiting  her  he  was  developing  a  taste  for  a  species  of 


THE    BALLINGTONS  259 

entertainment  that  was  unutterably  wearisome  to  her.  It 
seemed  to.  her,  too,  that  her  lack  of  vitality  hastened  in  her 
husband  the  development  of  certain  sinister  characteristics 
and  tendencies  which  until  now  had  been  held  in  abeyance. 
It  was  no  longer  possible  for  her  to  remain  blind  to  the  fact 
that  his  will  was  the  ultimate  factor  to  which  all  their  dif 
ferences  must  be  resolved. 

At  last  he  began  to  express  openly  his  impatience  at  her 
continued  depression,  and  when  he  found  that  she  no  longer 
responded  to  his  stimulants,  the  home  life  bored  him  more 
than  it  ever  had  done  before.  He  looked  on  with  scarcely 
concealed  irritation  at  her  devotion  to  their  children.  He 
told  her  that  she  was  getting  morbid,  allowing  them  to  absorb 
her  duty  to  him.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he  ceased  looking  for 
the  mental  understanding  and  companionship  between  them 
which  he  formerly  had  expressed  himself  as  expecting.  It 
was,  therefore,  no  shock  to  her  when  he  told  her  one  day, 
what  she  felt  he  had  told  himself  already,  namely,  that  she 
was  a  weakling,  unable  to  adjust  herself  mentally  or  physi 
cally  to  her  surroundings. 

Having  reached  this  point,  with  an  inward  sense  of  rank 
ling  injury  Ferdinand  made  up  his  mind  that  the  only  course 
consistent  with  his  dignity  was  to  make  the  best  of  what 
threatened  to  be  an  unsatisfactory  bargain.  He  would  not 
confess  to  himself  that  he  had  made  a  mistake  of  judgment 
in  selecting  her.  The  fault  lay  in  her  willfully  refusing  to 
develop  along  the  lines  he  had  expected.  She  had  shown  her 
ability  to  do  this  at  first,  and. he  suspected  that  the  flagging 
of  her  energy  was  a  symptom  of  waning  devotion  to  himself. 
Her  involuntary  cry  contrasting  him  with  Donald,  recalled 
instantly  though  it  had  been,  rose  oftener  in  his  memory, 
and  he  found  himself  watching  her  for  other  indications  of 
fickleness  and  discontent. 

No  one  but  Donald  suspected  how  far  Agnes'  depression 
was  drifting.  He  saw  that  it  was  accompanied  by  a  cor 
responding  coolness  and  indifference  in  Ferdinand.  After 
watching  Agnes  closely  for  some  time  and  thinking  anxiously 


260  THE    BALLINGTONS 

over  her  matters  and  Tom's,  Donald  made  a  business  trip  to 
New  York  the  spring  following  Stephen's  birth,  and  while  in 
that  city  he  made  a  point  of  calling  upon  Miriam  Cass. 

Early  in  June  it  came  about,  quite  naturally,  that  Miriam 
came  up  to  Winston  for  her  first  visit  to  Agnes  since  they 
left  college  five  years  before.  Their  regular  correspondence 
had  developed  an  unexpected  strength  and  depth  in  their 
friendship.  Their  mental  companionship  had  become  a  con 
firmed  and  eager  necessity  for  both. 

When  they  met,  Miriam  held  her  friend  a  long  time,  a  hand 
on  each  shoulder,  looking  at  her  intently ;  then  releasing  her, 
she  said  with  a  smile  that  was  half -sweet,  half -ironic :  "  It  has 
been  better  that  we  weren't  together  these  five  years.  We 
have  kept  all  the  idealism,  and  separation  has  made  our  inter 
course  a  refuge  and  a  luxury,  but  it  is  lovely  to  meet  again," 
she  added,  the  old  smile  which  Agnes  knew  so  well  vanishing 
in  a  splendor  of  emotion  which  was  a  new  and  rich  enchant 
ment  to  the  young  wife. 

The  old  boldness  and  power  Agnes  from  the  first  had 
recognized  in  Miriam  were  still  there,  but  there  was  a  new 
ardor  and  a  deepening  sympathy.  A  kind  of  impatient  full 
ness  of  humanity  took  the  place  of  the  old  caustic  spirit.  On 
the  other  hand  Miriam  noticed  the  steady  luminousness  into 
which  her  friend's  old  flighty  enthusiasm  had  concentrated. 
She  felt  respect  for  the  judgment  and  the  controlled  will 
which  were  even  more  apparent  in  Agnes  herself  than  they 
had  been  in  her  letters. 

The  richness,  wise  understanding,  and  healthful  exhilara 
tion  which  came  to  Agnes'  life  with  Miriam's  visit  told  at 
once  upon  her  physical  and  mental  well-being.  The  spring 
and  buoyancy  came  back  into  her  mind.  Miram's  bitter  and 
loving  drollery  whipped  her  into  answering  sallies.  Trans 
figured  nonsense  flashed  again,  here  and  there,  like  will-o'-the- 
wisp  through  her  conversation.  Fits  of  laughter,  ending 
breathless  and  speechless,  again  overtook  her.  She  fell  to 
walking  straight  again,  giving  the  old  piquant  twist  to  her 
hair;  the  flush  of  sunrise  crept  back  to  her  neck  and  arms, 


THE     BALLINGTONS  261 

and  quick,  vital  gestures  punctuated  remarks  which  again 
came  out  frankly. 

Donald's  sore  and  self-accusing  conscience  felt  unwonted 
ease  as  he  watched  the  success  of  his  venture.  Before  long 
a  second  hope  began  to  grow  within  him.  Miriam  seemed  to 
touch  and  bring  to  life  what  was  most  manly  and  ambitious 
in  Tom.  Beatrice  was  forgotten,  and  Tom  gave  up  without 
a  struggle  to  an  adoration  of  Agnes'  friend  that  was  pathetic 
to  witness.  She  was  Tom's  superior,  Donald  knew,  and  older 
than  he,  but  their  tastes  were  similar,  and  Tom  was  lovable. 
His  Aunt  Stella  had  married  Ferdinand's  father.  Might  not 
Miriam  marry  Tom? 

Ferdinand's  feelings  for  his  wife's  friend  were  not  easy 
to  decipher.  Miriam  treated  him  with  a  mixture  of  suavity 
and  inscrutable  deference  which  the  simple  Donald  misread 
as  unaffected  courtesy;  which  Tom  interpreted,  much  to  his 
own  discomfort,  as  an  indication  that  Miriam  was  humiliat- 
ingly  taken  in ;  which  Miss  Margaret  thought  was  apprecia 
tion;  and  which  Agnes  alone  realized  was  the  perfection 
of  tact. 


CHAPTER   II 


"I 


CH  hatte  einst  ein  schones- 
Tom!" 


Tom  scowled  at  the  words  on  the  music-rack  in  front  of 
him  and  said  rapidly  on  the  key  he  had  just  reached  in  sing 
ing,  "  Fire  away,  mater !  What  is  it  ?  "  then  touched  the 
third  note  above  sonorously  with  the  first  syllable  of 
"  Vaterland." 

"  What  is  that  song  you  are  singing  ?  It  is  a  very  dull 
song.  All  the  songs  you  sing  now  are  dull.  Where  did  you 
get  them?" 

As  Mrs.  Ballington  put  her  question  Donald  glanced  up 
from  the  paper  he  was  reading  and  asked  encouragingly, 
"  They  are  the  songs  Miss  Cass  suggested,  aren't  they, 
Tom?  "  and  without  waiting  for  Tom  to  commit  himself, 
Donald  continued  to  his  mother,  "  It's  better  music  than  Tom 
has  been  singing.  After  a  little  while  you'll  like  them, 
mother." 

Behind  Tom's  back  Donald  and  his  mother  exchanged  a 
swift  look,  accompanied  on  the  part  of  each  with  a  gesture. 
Donald's  pantomime  said,  "  Fall  in  with  the  music.  It's  a 
good  thing,"  while  the  dowager  answered  with  an  expression 
which  came  easily  to  her  face  and  hand,  implying,  "  Oh,  well, 
I  suppose  I  must  make  the  best  of  it." 

Donald  had  been  watching  his  mother  with  uneasiness  dur 
ing  Miriam's  visit,  her  manner  recalling  painfully  to  him 
the  period  of  his  own  courtship  of  Agnes  Sidney.  It  was 
even  harder  for  her  to  give  in  to  Tom's  devotion  to  Miriam, 
because  her  common  sense  argued  the  extreme  advisability 
of  it,  and  Mrs.  Ballington  grudged  concessions  to  common 
sense  as  well  as  to  any  other  common  thing.  She  refrained 

262 


THE     BALLINGTONS  263 

from  criticism  when  with  Tom,  however,  making  up  for  it  to 
Donald  when  they  were  alone  together,  and  this  Donald  ac 
cepted  cordially,  knowing  it  to  be  a  safety-valve  for  his 
mother. 

As  soon  as  Tom  finished  the  song  he  gave  a  supple  wheel 
around  on  the  piano-bench  and  jumped  up  briskly.  "  Time 
to  go,  Don !  '  The  guests  are  assembled.  The  bridegroom 
stays  late.' ' 

The  brothers  said  their  adieus  to  their  mother,  took  their 
hats,  and  went  together  into  the  afternoon  sunshine.  A 
spirit  of  perverse  silence  descended  upon  Tom,  which  Donald 
did  not  venture  to  disturb.  They  went  down  the  walk  to  the 
gate,  down  the  street  to  the  car-line,  boarded  a  cross-town 
car,  and  rode  for  a  couple  of  miles. 

When  they  left  the  car  they  were  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  Ballington  farm.  There  still  remained  several  vacant 
lots,  however,  between  them  and  Ferdinand's  home,  and 
they  struck  across  these,  following  a  time-worn  little  path 
along  which  a  generation  ago  the  Ballington  cows  had 
come  at  night.  It  still  meandered  in  its  leisurely  way 
under  the  butternut  trees  across  the  newly  laid-out  city- 
lots  with  their  rectangular  corners,  ignoring  the  upstart 
iron  hydrants  and  the  street  lamps — that  mark  of  blase  city 
life  where  night  never  comes  with  sweet  silence  and  rest. 
Here  and  there  a  clump  of  bushes  strove  gallantly  to  repel 
city  limits  and  bring  back  the  genius  of  the  wood.  As  they 
followed  the  path  the  two  brothers  instinctively  fell  into  their 
boyish  custom — Donald  walking  ahead,  Tom  strolling  be 
hind. 

As  they  reached  the  largest  butternut  tree  the  Ballington 
homestead  came  into  full  view,  its  trim  brick  wall  and  avenue 
of  symmetrical  cedars  standing  out  uncompromisingly  in  the 
bright  sunshine.  Tom  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets  and 
stood  looking  resentfully  at  Ferdinand's  domain.  "  The  look 
of  that  place  just  turns  my  stomach!  "  he  exclaimed. 

Donald  looked  back  inquiringly.  "  What's  the  matter  with 
the  place  ?  "  he  asked  obtusely. 


264  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"  Oh,  don't  make  me  talk  about  it,"  Tom  responded  furi 
ously.  "  This  poor  old  cowpath  and  Uncle  Tom's  butternut 
trees  are  a  bad  prologue  to  Ferdinand's  necrological  improve 
ments.  The  little  love  for  my  kind  I  have  left  will  turn  sour 
when  brandy-soaked  old  Tompkins  planks  down  his  tons  of 
pressed  brick  on  this  lot  and  that  vox  et  praeterea  nihil,  his 
spouse,  desecrates  the  ground  once  trodden  by  grandfather's 
crurnple-horned  white  bull.  I  feel  like  the  ghost  of  that  bull. 
I  wish  I  were ! "  he  blurted  a  moment  later ;  "  I'd  clean 
out  the  upper  circles  of  this  town.  I'd  toss  'em  into  the  lower 
part  of  eternity ! " 

A  slow  smile  on  Donald's  face  answered  this  tirade.  The 
elder  brother  felt  at  last  at  liberty  to  speak.  "  It's  no  use 
worrying  about  things  you  can't  help,  Tom,"  he  said  placidly 
as  they  resumed  their  walk.  "  If  you  haven't  anything  worse 
than  Tompkin's  new  house  to  worry  you,  you're  a  lucky 
man." 

Tom's  brows  contracted  slightly  and  he  began  to  whistle 
softly  a  strain  from  the  song  he  had  been  practicing  before 
they  started  out. 

After  a  moment,  Donald  continued  hesitatingly,  "  I  think 
Miriam  Cass'  visit  has  been  a  providential  thing  all  around, 
Tom." 

Tom  flushed  darkly,  but  said  nothing. 

Donald  went  on  earnestly :  "  She's  an  extraordinary 
woman,  and  there's  just  one  thing  for  you  to  do.  Make  your 
self  worthy  of  her  respect  and  love.  She  certainly  likes  you, 
and  I  think  you  have  it  in  you  to  win  more  from  her." 

Tom  met  his  brother's  eyes  frankly.  "  I  know  you  wish 
me  well,  Don,"  he  said  affectionately,  "  but  you  and  I  both 
know  I  am  not  worthy  of  her;  still,  notwithstanding  Fred's 
insinuations  about  me,  I  haven't  committed  any  unpardonable 
sin  yet." 

"  I  don't  think  you  ever  could  get  your  own  consent  to 
commit  an  unpardonable  sin,  Tom,"  responded  Donald 
gravely. 

"  Well,"  Tom  began  more  briskly,  "  you  might "   He 


THE    BALLINGTONS  265 

broke  off  with  an  embarrassed  laugh,  then  finished  irrele 
vantly,  "  Well,  I  guess  we'll  let  it  go  at  that." 

"  Do  you  want  something,  Tom?  "  asked  Donald  encourag 
ingly.  "  I'll  do  anything  for  you  I  can.  Do  you  want  money 
again  ?  " 

"  Well — yes,  thanks.  That  wasn't  just  uppermost  in  my 
mind,  however.  I  was  thinking  that  you  take  so  much  stock 
in — in  praying,  you  know — why,  damn  it!  here's  a  case  of 
need  at  your  own  door.  If  the  throne  of  grace  doesn't  help 
me  out  in  this  deal,  I  guess  I'm  out  of  the  race." 

There  was  a  huskiness  in  Tom's  voice  that  made  Donald's 
eyes  blur.  "  Tom !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  My  dear  brother !  " 

"  Oh,  don't  rub  it  in ! "  Tom  interrupted  quickly,  as  he 
hastened  his  pace.  "  You  needn't  order  the  funeral  flowers 
just  yet.  Here  we  are  at  the  family  vault,"  he  resumed  a 
moment  later  as  they  approached  Ferdinand's  gate.  "  We're 
in  the  right  mood  to  march  down  the  avenue  abreast." 

They  entered  Ferdinand's  yard  and  Tom  walked  solemnly 
down  the  path  between  the  cedars. 

When  they  had  nearly  reached  the  house  there  was  a  col 
lapse  of  his  stiff  carriage  which  preluded  an  exclamation  from 
him.  "  There  she  is  in  the  side  yard  under  the  apple-tree !  " 

They  hurried  over  the  smooth-shaven  lawn  and  approached 
the  apple  tree  under  which  Miriam  Cass  was  sitting  reading. 
She  rose  when  she  saw  them  coming  and  walked  slowly  for 
ward  to  meet  them. 

A  thrill  of  fear  and  exaltation  swept  all  Tom's  nerves.  He 
felt  with  a  passion  of  despair  and  adoration  an  irradiation  of 
genius  over  the  deep  bronze  hair,  the  stern  set  of  the  black 
brows,  the  scarcely  perceptible  line — it  might  be  of  sadness, 
it  might  be  of  cynicism — drawn  from  the  sensitive  nostrils 
down  to  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  It  flashed  from  her  hawk 
like  gray  eyes  and  magnetized  her  old  unobtrusive  manner. 

She  shook  hands  cordially  with  the  brothers  and  returned 
with  them  to  the  rugs  spread  out  beneath  the  apple  trees. 
Agnes'  thirteen-months-old  baby  was  asleep  near  by  in  a 
hammock. 


266  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Tom  took  his  place  a  little  behind  Miriam  where  he  could 
watch  the  sun  on  her  burnished  hair  and  the  bold  yet  finely 
cut  outline  of  her  features. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  interrupted  your  reading,  Miss  Cass," 
Donald  began.  "  Go  on  and  finish  your  chapter.  Here 
comes  Agnes.  We  can  talk  to  her."  Donald  rose  as  he  spoke 
and  Miriam  looked  toward  the  house.  Agnes  was  coming 
toward  them  across  the  lawn  leading  little  Estelle  by  the 
hand. 

"  Ferdinand  sent  up  word  he'd  be  fifteen  minutes  late," 
Tom  said  to  her  at  once. 

Miriam  moved  slightly  and  made  a  gesture  inviting  Agnes 
to  sit  down  beside  her. 

Agnes,  however,  smiled  a  refusal,  went  over  to  the  ham 
mock,  lifted  the  baby,  and  smiled  again  at  the  others  as  she 
started  toward  the  house.  The  baby  moved  its  head  about 
on  her  shoulder,  now  exhibiting  a  head  worn  bare  of  hair  at 
the  back,  and  now  a  face  ludicrously  like  Ferdinand's. 

Little  Estelle  started  forward,  too,  both  arms  out,  in  a 
hurry,  and  tumbled  down.  "  Never  mind,  Estelle.  I'll  carry 
you,"  said  Donald,  and  he  picked  her  up  and  overtook  Agnes. 

Tom  pulled  a  pillow  toward  him,  cushioned  the  trunk  of 
a  tree,  and  leaned  back  against  it,  clasping  his  hands  behind 
his  head.  As  soon  as  the  others  were  out  of  hearing  he  began, 
"  I've  been  wanting  to  ask  you  ever  since  you  came  what 
your  conclusions  are  about  Ferdinand.  Do  you  like  him?  " 

Miriam's  eyes  smiled.    "  You  don't,"  she  said. 

"  Right,  there !  "  replied  Tom  promptly.  "  Agnes  would 
have  done  a  long  sight  better  to  take  Don." 

Miriam  looked  quizzical.  "  Mr.  Ballington  has  some  ad 
mirable  traits,"  she  commented  quietly. 

"  So  have  I !  "  blurted  out  Tom,  "  but  you'd  never  think  of 
marrying  me,  would  you  ?  " 

He  had  not  realized  the  full  import  of  what  he  was  saying 
until  after  it  was  out.  Then  he  turned  pale  with  a  sense  of 
the  irrevocableness  of  his  blunder.  To  be  suddenly  launched 
all  unprepared  into  a  proposal  of  which  he  scarcely  had  dared 


THE    BALLINGTONS  267 

dream  in  the  utmost  flight  of  his  imagination  filled  him  with 
dismay.  * 

Miriam's  impulse  was  to  laugh,  when  something  in  his  look 
checked  her. 

Tom  leaned  forward  with  decision.  "  The  Lord  knows,  I 
didn't  think  what  I  was  saying,"  ,he  began  incoherently.  "  A 
man  doesn't  propose  to  a  woman  like  you  quite  so  rapidly. 
But  what's  the  use?  You  might  as  well  know  it.  I'm  not  fit 
to  black  your  shoes.  If  I  thought  I  were,  I  would  ask  you  if 
I  could  do  it.  If  I  thought  the  time  ever  would  come  when 
you'd  take  me  for  your  shoeblack,  I'd  wait  and  be  happy. 
What  a  fertile  ass  I  am  to  be  talking  to  you  like  this.  For 
God's  sake,  tell  me  you  forgive  me,  or  excuse  me,  or  ignore 
me.  You've  done  Agnes  a  world  of  good  since  you  came.  She 
needed  a  change  and  stimulus  very  badly."  Tom's  manner 
underwent  a  change  in  the  last  two  sentences.  He  instinc 
tively  tried  to  ward  off  his  catastrophe. 

Miriam,  however,  disregarded  his  attempt.  "  I  appreciate 
the  fact  that  you  blundered  into  saying  something  that  you 
did  not  intend,"  she  responded  slowly,  "  and  I'm  going  to 
answer  by  saying  something  I  did  not  intend  to  say.  You 
have  the  making  of  a  fine  man  in  you  and  you  ought  to  live 
so  that  you  wouldn't  feel  you  had  insulted  a  woman  by  ask 
ing  her  to  marry  you." 

Tom's  face  turned  a  deep  crimson.  "  You're  right,"  he 
replied  with  an  effort  after  a  moment,  "  and  if  you  cared 
about  it  ever  so  little,  I'd  try  to  get  within  gunshot  of  being 
such  a  man." 

"  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  whether  I  care  or  not," 
Miriam  replied  steadily ;  "  we  have  to  be  our  best  selves  inde 
pendently,  or  we  aren't  our  best  selves  at  all." 

Tom's  lip  trembled,  but  he  answered  bravely,  "  I  know  it. 
Of  course  I  had  no  right  to  ask  you  to  care.  I'm  going  to 
make  a  try  of  it  anyway,  just  for  having  known  you.  You 
won't  grudge  me  that." 

A  gentleness  came  over  Miriam's  manner  which  was  dan 
gerous  to  Tom's  self-control.  "  I  do  care.  I'm  a  lonely 


268  THE    BALLINGTONS 

creature  myself.  I  never  shall  have  anything  but  friendships 
in  my  life,  and,  if  you  will,  you  can  make  one  of  these." 

A  look  of  gratitude  and  humility  passed  like  a  refining 
fire  over  Tom's  face.  "  Thank  you,"  he  said.  He  was  think 
ing  of  Miriam's  inner  life  into  which  he  had  seen.  For  the 
first  time  he  realized  something  of  the  sacrifice  she  had  made 
for  her  profession.  It  abashed  him,  but  at  the  same  time  it 
made  him  rebellious.  What  was  art  to  stand  between  such  a 
woman  and  happiness?  She  would  be  the  greater  sculptor 
for  marrying. 

As  he  looked  at  her  his  eyes  were  drawn  beyond  her  by  a 
figure  turning  in  at  the  gate  and  coming  up  the  walk.  It  was 
Ferdinand,  and  Tom's  quick  mind  leaped  to  a  kindred  situa 
tion.  Agnes  had  had  a  future  in  her  voice,  and  she  had  given 
it  up  for  marriage.  The  logic  of  the  wise  saying,  "  No  man 
can  serve  two  masters,"  was  borne  in  upon  him,  as  matri 
mony,  in  the  person  of  Ferdinand,  advanced  relentlessly  up 
the  walk. 

"  Here  he  comes !  "  he  said  in  a  dead-and-alive  tone. 

Miriam  looked  up  and  saw  Ferdinand  coming  across  the 
grass  toward  them.  From  her  first  sight  of  him  this  summer 
until  to-day,  her  last  day  in  Winston,  Miriam  always  had 
experienced  a  curious  sensation  whenever  she  and  Ferdinand 
met.  It  was  the  instinctive  bracing  of  her  nerves  for  the  de 
fensive.  Like  Ferdinand,  however,  she  never  was  visibly  con 
fused,  and  she  gave  him  a  smile  as  slight  as  his  own  as  he 
approached,  and  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

He  removed  his  hat  and  said,  looking  from  one  to  the  other, 
"  I  am  a  little  late.  I  think  we  had  better  go  right  in  to  din 
ner."  He  held  out  his  hand  to  assist  Miriam  to  her  feet,  and 
walked  slowly  beside  her  while  Tom  sauntered  along  on  the 
other  side. 

"  Were  you  reading?  "  asked  Ferdinand. 

"  No,  I  was  talking  with  your  cousin." 

"  I  saw  you  were  carrying  a  novel.  Occasionally  I  find 
time  to  read  fiction  myself.  Agnes  has  gone  into  it  rather  too 
freely,  it  seems  to  me;  and  while  we  are  on  the  subject  I  would 


THE     BALLINGTONS  269 

like  to  suggest  to  you  that  you  use  your  influence  with  Agnes 
to  read  more  judiciously.  I've  been  surprised  to  see  that  she 
has  taken  to  reading  Fielding  lately." 

"You  have  read  him,  haven't  you?"  asked  Miriam  seri 
ously.  "  I  have  myself." 

"  You  are  ready  for  it,  Miss  Cass,  while  Agnes  is  hardly 
prepared  to  use  the  same  liberty  of  choice." 

Miriam  walked  on  in  silence  between  her  two  companions, 
looking  at  the  ground.  Tom's  collar  began  to  choke  him. 
When  they  reached  the  walk  leading  up  to  the  front  steps  he 
broke  the  silence. 

"  Agnes  is  just  as  ready  for  it  as  Miss  Cass,"  he  exclaimed 
indignantly,  looking  first  at  Ferdinand  and  then  at  the  woman 
he  loved.  "  I  can  tell  you  exactly  why  she  is  reading  Field 
ing.  It's  because  you're  always  quoting  him."  He  abruptly 
checked  himself  as  he  saw  the  corners  of  Miriam's  mouth 
twitch. 

They  entered  the  house  without  further  conversation. 

As  they  reached  the  dining-room  Miriam  paused  in  the 
doorway  to  look  at  Agnes.  The  eye  of  the  artist  took  in  the 
beauty  of  the  picture.  Agnes  stood  in  front  of  the  golden- 
cherry  buffet  putting  a  huge  bunch  of  Marechal  Neil  roses 
into  a  Russian  glass  bowl.  A  thin  ray  of  afternoon  sunlight 
fell  across  her,  throwing  into  relief  the  beautiful  head,  and 
lighting  up  the  subdued  colors  of  her  Roman  silk  blouse, 
belted  in  at  the  waist.  Her  back  was  toward  them  and  she 
looked  straight  and  young,  the  raised  arms  supple  and 
muscular. 

At  the  sound  of  their  approach  she  turned  her  head  over 
her  shoulder,  then,  with  a  vivid  smile,  clasped  the  bowl  of 
roses  with  both  arms  and  turned  toward  the  newcomers, 
looking  through  and  over  the  flowers  at  Miriam.  "  For  you 
and  me,"  she  exclaimed,  "  from  Donald  and  Tom !  We  are 
in  the  vale  of  Kashmir  in  the  month  of  roses." 

"  Well,  Agnes,"  returned  Tom,  "  you  just  stand  there  the 
rest  of  the  evening  and  hold  them.  You  ought  to  be  pre 
served  as  you  are.  If  I  had  a  wand  I'd  wave  it  over  you !  " 


270  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Agnes  stooped  a  moment  over  the  roses,  drew  a  long  breath, 
turned  and  replaced  them  on  the  buffet. 

As  she  came  forward  to  the  table  Tom  noticed  that  she 
was  wearing  cameos  at  throat,  waist,  and  cuffs.  As  soon  as 
they  were  seated  he  leaned  forward  and  examined  them. 

"Where  did  you  resurrect  those?"  he  asked  delightedly. 
"  You  can't  fool  me.  Those  are  two  hundred  years  old  if 
they're  a  day.  And  the  setting  belongs  to  the  same  period. 
If  you  ever  want  to  pawn  them,  I'm  your  man." 

Ferdinand's  brow  contracted. 

Agnes  laughed.  "  Miriam  brought  me  these,"  she  said. 
"  She  gave  me  the  waist,  too.  Don't  they  go  well  together  ?  " 

"  Well,  they're  not  like  the  rest  of  your  things,"  Tom  com 
mented  with  satisfaction.  "  There's  a  kind  of  old-aristocracy 
air  about  you  in  those.  You  always  look  fine,  but  somehow 
I  can't  get  away  from  the  thought  that  most  of  your  other 
things  are  the  same  material  that  Mrs.  Mortimer  Tompkins 
might  buy, — or  any  other  rich  person,"  he  finished,  without 
glancing  at  Ferdinand.  "  Now  I  might  have  bought  these 
myself." 

Ferdinand  smiled. 

"  If  you  mean  that  they're  within  reach  of  your  purse," 
he  commented,  "  I  guess  Mrs.  Tompkins  would  have  the  best 
of  it.  Those  cameos  are  very  expensive." 

"  Of  course  they  are,"  returned  Tom  affably.  "  That's 
another  reason  why  I  would  have  bought  them,  while  Mrs. 
Tompkins  would  think  twice  about  it." 

Ferdinand  disdained  to  respond,  and  Miriam,  feeling  the 
awkwardness  of  the  conversation,  turned  to  Tom,  holding  out 
her  hands  for  inspection.  "  Royal  compliments  are  in  the 
air.  The  visiting  monarch  has  received  his  parting  gift." 

Tom  wondered  if  it  were  satire  or  pleasure  in  her  tone  as 
his  eye  was  caught  by  a  ring  on  the  first  finger  of  Miriam's 
hand.  It  was  a  pear-shaped  jade  lozenge  in  a  massive  set 
ting,  the  jade  outlined  by  a  continuous  row  of  small  but  bril 
liant  emeralds. 

"  Did   Agnes   give   you  that? "   he  asked  incredulously. 


THE     BALLINGTONS  271 

"  That's  pretty  good  for  America ! "  He  pretended  to  be 
still  looking  at  the  ring,  but  in  reality  he  was  studying  with 
passionate  renunciation  the  compact  and  flexible  hand  held 
.  out  without  a  tremor  disturbing  its  statuesque  repose. 

"  Ferdinand  picked  it  out,"  said  Agnes.  "  I  think  he 
showed  excellent  taste." 

"  Agnes  and  Mr.  Ballington  gave  it  to  me  this  morning. 
It  is  truly  a  beautiful  remembrance,"  Miriam  added. 

Tom  withdrew  his  eyes.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  he  re 
frained  from  remarking,  "  I  wonder  which  one  of  Tiffany's 
clerks  he  got  to  select  it  for  him,"  but  he  contented  himself 
with  asking  querulously,  "  Why  do  you  wear  it  on  the  first 
finger?  " 

"  It's  true  I  ought  to  wear  it  on  the  thumb,"  said  Miriam 
reflectively.  "  It's  a  weak  concession  to  public  opinion. 
Sennacherib  and  Alexander  Borgia  wore  theirs  on  the 
thumb." 

Ferdinand  looked  up  inquiringly.  Aunt  Margaret  was 
hopelessly  mystified.  Meantime  Tom's  fury  of  rebellion  was 
reaching  the  danger  point.  Ferdinand,  by  a  deliberate  sub 
terfuge,  under  cover  of  his  wife,  had  given  Miriam  a  ring! 
Tom  had  wild  thoughts  of  combining  with  Aunt  Margaret 
and  Eliza  in  the  purchase  of  an  Assyrian  thumb  ring  which 
should  eclipse  the  jealous  emeralds  which  Tiffany's  clerk  had 
induced  Ferdinand  to  buy. 

There  was  a  gleam  of  amusement  in  Miriam's  eye  as  she 
glanced  side-long  at  her  dinner-companion.  She  divined  what 
was  going  on  behind  his  grim  face.  A  moment  later  she  put 
her  hand  up  to  her  throat  and  drew  from  beneath  the  embroid 
ered  collar  a  little  string  of  old  coral  which  Tom  recognized 
as  one  Agnes  had  worn  the  evening  of  her  arrival  in  her  new 
home.  It  had  been  given  to  Agnes'  father  by  an  old  sea  cap 
tain,  who  got  it  in  the  South  Sea.  "  One  more  gift,"  she  said. 
"  This  is  my  amulet."  As  she  slipped  it  back  again  she  re 
sumed  her  previous  manner.  "  I  shall  will  the  ring  to  Es- 
telle,  who,  I  hope,  will  have  the  courage  to  wear  it  on  her 
thumb." 


272  THE     BALLINGTONS 

Miriam's  eyes  were  so  full  of  kindness  and  humor  as  she 
looked  at  Tom  that  his  resentment  was  suddenly  assuaged. 
"  She's  seen  through  him  all  along,"  he  thought  with  a  leap 
of  ecstacy.  "  She's  willing  I  should  know  it  while  he  hasn't 
a  suspicion  of  it."  Meantime  the  dinner  progressed  rapidly 
as  an  early  start  was  to  be  made  for  the  lake.  Miriam  spoke 
appreciatively  of  the  old  glass  and  silver  which  were  used 
to-night  in  greater  display  than  hitherto.  Agnes  replied 
with  a  look  of  pleasure,  "  Aunt  Margaret  and  I  set  the  table 
ourselves  in  honor  of  your  last  evening." 

After  supper  they  went  to  the  lake.  They  took  their  seats 
in  a  rowboat,  Ferdinand  at  the  oars,  and  the  boat  slipped  out 
upon  the  water,  with  Tom  silent  in  one  end,  and  Agnes  trail 
ing  her  fingers  through  the  water  at  the  other,  both  of  them 
heavy-hearted  over  Miriam's  approaching  departure.  For 
some  moments  there  was  no  sound  but  the  dipping  of  the 
oars. 

Presently,  with  a  sigh,  Tom  began  to  play  his  guitar  softly. 
A  moment  later  in  a  tenor  voice  he  sang,  "  Ich  hatte  einst  ein 
schones  Vaterland."  He  looked  up  at  the  stars  as  he  sang 
the  three  short  stanzas.  Miriam's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
water.  When  he  had  finished  he  laid  his  guitar  across  his 
knees  and  leaned  upon  it  looking  at  her. 

After  a  little  silence  Miriam  roused  herself.  "  Sing  *  Gelb 
rollt  mir  zu  Fiissen,'  Agnes,"  she  demanded,  and  Tom  slowly 
brought  his  guitar  into  position  again. 

Ferdinand  stopped  rowing  and  the  boat  drifted  while 
Agnes'  voice  floated  out  over  the  water  with  its  old  daring 
and  a  fullness  of  tragic  meaning  that  was  new.  The  barbaric 
pride  and  swing  of  the  beginning  sinking  into  the  half -articu 
late  sob  at  the  end  of  the  song  made  the  party  feel  as  though 
some  disembodied  spirit  were  crying  after  the  life  that  had 
slipped  away  from  it.  Tom  shivered  and  turned  up  his  coat 
collar.  "  I  feel  as  if  the  angel  of  death  had  just  flown  over 
us,"  he  exclaimed  in  an  unsteady  voice. 

Miriam  leaned  forward  with  a  determined  look  in  her  gray 
eyes.  "  Agnes,"  she  said,  "  you  have  a  great  future  in  that 


THE    BALLINGTONS  273 

voice.  I  want  you  to  remember  what  I  say.  From  now  on  I 
want  you  to  practice  an  hour  every  day.  Such  a  gift  as  that 
is  the  greatest  thing  a  human  being  can  be  endowed  with, 
and  it's  blasphemy  to  let  it  fust  unused." 

Agnes'  fingers  trailed  in  the  water  and  she  did  not  look  up. 
"  I  know  it  is,"  she  said,  "  and  I  am  going  to  practice  hence 
forth." 

A  moment  later  she  found  Miriam's  eyes  still  gazing  in 
tently  at  her.  A  quiet  seemed  to  settle  over  the  party  upon 
their  return  trip.  Even  when  they  drew  near  town  and  saw 
the  pavilion  gleaming  like  a  jeweled  order  upon  the  breast 
of  the  lake,  and  passed  the  other  rowboats,  gay  with  music 
and  bright  colors,  it  did  not  affect  the  mood  of  the  five  who 
were  together  for  the  last  time. 

When  they  landed,  Donald  again  walked  with  Agnes  and 
her  husband,  leaving  his  brother  alone  with  Miriam.  As  they 
reached  the  farm  he  hesitated  and  looked  toward  Tom,  but 
Tom  was  already  saying  good-by,  and  the  brothers  walked 
away  together. 

"  Are  you  willing  to  tell  me  what  passed  between  Miss  Cass 
and  yourself,  Tom?  "  Donald  asked  as  soon  as  they  were  out 
of  hearing. 

"  She  refused  me,"  replied  Tom  briefly.  "  But  it's  the 
best  thing  that  ever  happened  to  me.  She'd  been  a  fool  if  she 
hadn't.  Says  she  isn't  going  to  marry  anybody.  I  guess 
she's  the  only  woman  that  ever  meant  it.  Anyway,  I  would 
rather  be  her  friend  than  the  husband  of  anybody  else  in  the 
world.  Now,  you  see,  this  time  I  mean  business !  " 

Donald  started  to  reply,  when  Tom  cut  him  short.  "  Shut 
up,  Don !  I  know  all  you've  got  to  say.  We're  both  in  the 
same  boat  with  the  women.  I  don't  say  that  celibacy  is  an 
attractive  state,  but  if  we've  got  to  enter  it,  we've  got  to 
ornament  it."  A  moment  later  he  added  with  emotion  in  his 
tone,  "  I  never  realized  before  all  you've  had  to  stand.  If  I 
had  to  sit  around  in  the  same  office  with  Miriam  Cass'  husband 
I'd  shoot  him  inside  of  half  an  hour." 

"  No,  you  wouldn't,  Tom,"  said  Donald  gloomily. 


274  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"  No,  I'd  strangle  him !  I'd  kill  him  very  slowly  and  pain 
fully." 

Donald  made  no  reply  to  this  primeval  remark,  and  they 
made  the  rest  of  their  way  home  in  silence.  A  feeling  of  de 
pression  was  weighing  upon  the  elder  brother.  He  had  little 
faith  that  Tom  would  remain  in  his  present  renunciatory 
state  of  mind,  nor  was  he  in  sympathy  with  Miriam's  notions 
about  platonic  friendships.  They  were  unnatural  and  had 
wrought  endless  mischief  in  the  world.  She  should  have  re 
fused  Tom  for  an  adequate  reason — because  she  did  not  love 
him,  or  thought  herself  too  old.  Love,  not  art,  is  the  arbiter  of 
marriage.  He  was  dissatisfied  with  Miriam's  coldness.  Then 
he  reflected  that  this  might  be  natural  in  a  woman  older  than 
Tom  who  was  absorbed  in  her  work.  At  least  she  had  given 
Tom  a  temporary  inspiration,  while  Agnes  would  permanently 
benefit  by  the  fresh  current  of  life  and  of  interest  Miriam 
had  brought  with  her. 


CHAPTER  III 

TV/fEANTIME.as  the  other  three  walked  up  the  path  to  the 
farmhouse  Agnes  hurried  ahead  a  little  toward  Miss 
Ballington,  who  stood  in  the  doorway  to  welcome  them. 

"  Is  the  baby  all  right?  How  was  he  during  the  evening?  " 
she  asked  anxiously. 

"  He's  asleep  now,  dear.    I  rocked  him  off  once  or  twice." 

Agnes  kissed  the  faded  cheek.  "  It  was  good  in  you  to 
give  me  this  nice  evening,  Aunt  Margaret,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
very  grateful." 

"  I've  a  little  lunch  for  you  in  the  dining-room,"  Miss  Bal 
lington  responded  happily.  "  Eliza  wanted  to  go  out  and 
I  let  her,  but  I  got  a  tiny  little  lunch  myself." 

"  Eliza  ought  not  to  have  left  you,"  said  Agnes  with  sur 
prise  and  displeasure  in  her  tone.  "  But  never  mind,  it  was 
lovely  in  you  to  get  something  ready  for  us." 

They  all  went  to  the  dining-room,  Miriam  accompanying 
Miss  Ballington  and  entertaining  her  with  an  account  of 
their  boat  ride.  "  I  wish  you  might  have  been  with  us,"  she 
said  as  they  sat  down  to  the  table. 

Miss  Margaret's  pride  in  her  own  unselfishness  expanded 
beautifully  under  the  general  appreciation  of  herself  and  her 
repast.  She  beamed  upon  each  in  turn  and  gave  an  ornate 
and  detailed  account  of  the  way  in  which  she  herself  had 
spent  the  evening.  She  had  been  reading  her  favorite  poem, 
"  In  Memoriam,"  and  she  gave  a  florid  and  stately  little 
eulogy  on  friendship  and  its  power  in  the  world. 

Ferdinand  listened  with  his  smile  of  superiority.  He  had 
heard  Miriam  speak  slightingly  of  the  poem  once,  and  it  was 
with  the  consciousness  of  saying  something  agreeable  that 
he  began  in  his  turn  to  disparage  it.  He  also  took  occasion 
to  comment  with  indulgence  upon  his  aunt's  impossible  ideal 

275 


276  THE    BALLINGTONS 

of  friendship.  Friendships  were  utilitarian;  pure,  disin 
terested  friendship  was  a  bird  of  an  extinct  species.  He 
glanced  toward  Miriam  during  his  remark  with  the  comfort 
able  assurance  of  having  one  appreciative  listener.  Some 
what  to  his  disappointment  their  guest  did  not  seem  to  be 
listening  to  him,  but  Agnes  recognized  in  her  friend  an  ex 
pression  she  had  come  to  know.  It  meant  that  Miriam's  usual 
tolerance  of  all  men's  opinions  had  fallen  from  her  like  a  veil, 
leaving  bare  a  nature  as  hard  and  unyielding  as  flint. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Ferdinand's  remarks  about  his  wife 
that  afternoon,  to  which  Tom  had  taken  exception,  had  been 
rankling  in  Miriam's  mind  ever  since  they  were  spoken.  They 
had  given  the  last  touch  to  an  antagonism  which  had  been  in 
stinctive  in  Miriam  five  years  before,  the  first  night  she  had 
ever  seen  Ferdinand,  and  which  had  been  steadily  becoming 
fixed.  Her  unfailing  tact  of  manner  toward  her  friend's  hus 
band  had  been  achieved  only  by  a  persistent  effort  of  will. 

After  the  conversation  had  drifted  away  from  the  danger 
ous  topic  to  a  harmless  discussion  of  Stevenson  and  South 
Sea  Island  scenery,  and  Agnes  was  breathing  free  again, 
Miriam  trusted  herself  to  look  toward  her  host  as  she 
addressed  a  remark  to  him.  As  Miriam's  gray  eyes  crossed 
Ferdinand's  steady  blue  gaze,  Agnes  was  conscious  of  a  flash 
such  as  springs  from  the  clash  of  flint  on  steel,  while  Ferdi 
nand,  too,  felt  an  unwonted  sensation,  an  instant's  recoil. 

"  You  ought  not  to  talk  about  the  South  Sea  Islands  till 
you  have  been  there,  or,  at  least,  you  ought  to  be  sure  of  the 
source  of  your  information,"  Miriam  said,  smiling.  "  Your 
friend's  criticism  of  Stevenson  is  ridiculous.  I  have  been 
there.  And  now,  since  it  is  my  last  night,"  she  said,  with 
more  graciousness  than  she  so  far  had  been  able  to  assume, 
"  I  am  going  to  take  an  old  friend's  liberty  and  dispute  with 
you.  A  little  while  ago  you  were  talking  about  friendship 
in  the  same  way  that  you  have  just  been  talking  about  the 
South  Sea  Islands." 

Her  slight  shrug  and  gesture  of  differential  disapproval 
pleased  Ferdinand — it  was  so  feminine. 


277 

"I  doubt  if  you  know  what  friendship  is,"  she  continued 
thoughtfully,  her  manner  changing.  "  I  sometimes  think  it 
isn't  as  common  as  it  once  was — we  say  so  much  less  about  it 
than  our  great-grandfathers  did.  As  for  me,  I  owe  the  best 
part  of  myself  to  youi*  wife  here.  You  and  I  are  something 
alike,  Mr.  Ballington.  We  both  need  to  be  educated  in  things 
of  the  soul."  Miriam  rose  as  she  spoke,  but  paused  with 
both  hands  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  looking  steadily  at  her 
host. 

Ferdinand  watched  her  closely,  wondering  at  the  expec 
tancy  with  which  he  awaited  her  next  words. 

"You  don't  like  to  yield  a  single  point,  Mr.  Ballington. 
Neither  do  I.  We  are  hard  people.  I  have  the  hardness  of 
the  jesting  Sadducee,  you  of  the  upright  Pharisee.  Our 
friend  here,"  and  she  turned  with  inexpressible  tenderness  to 
Agnes,  "  is  neither  a  Pharisee  nor  a  Sadducee,  but  a  Galilean, 
and  we  can  no  more  resist  her  without  damning  ourselves  than 
this  world  can  resist  her  Master.  She  is  broader  than  you 
or  I  ever  will  be,  sees  deeper  into  life.  She  is  doing  for  us 
both  what  no  other  influence  ever  can  do.  The  friendship  of 
such  a  soul  is  the  greatest  blessing  in  the  world." 

Ferdinand  was  uncomfortably  conscious  of  an  inexplic 
able  melancholy  stealing  through  the  atmosphere,  a  repeti 
tion  of  the  mood  which  had  fallen  upon  the  party  on  the  lake 
after  Agnes'  song.  He  wondered  if  he  caught  the  drift  of 
what  Miriam  was  saying. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence;  then  Miriam  took  her  hand 
from  the  back  of  the  chair,  smiled  at  her  host,  said  good 
night,  touched  Aunt  Margaret's  shoulder  lightly,  thanking 
her  once  more  for  her  hospitality,  and,  without  speaking  to 
Agnes,  turned  and  went  toward  the  door.  The  instant  her 
back  was  turned  her  smile  vanished,  and  as  she  went  up  the 
stairs  to  her  room  she  struck  her  right  hand  into  her  left 
palm,  "  If  God  should  do  it,"  she  thought,  "  it  would  be  all- 
wise.  If  I  should,  it  would  be  murder  in  the  first  degree. 
God  appears  to  have  gone  hunting,  or  peradventure  He 
sleepeth." 


278  THE    BALLINGTONS 

A  few  moments  later  Ferdinand  followed  Agnes  slowly  up 
to  their  rooms.  He  found  himself  watching  his  wife  with  un 
accustomed  interest,  trying  to  discover  what  there  was  in 
her  to  call  forth  Miriam's  late  eulogy.  He  was  rewarded  by 
a  fresh  zest  in  her  physical  appearance. 

"  You're  looking  very  well  again,  Agnes,"  he  said,  feeling 
a  pleasurable  prick  of  novelty  in  complimenting  her.  For 
the  first  time  in  weeks  he  felt  something  of  the  old  attraction. 

Agnes  looked  up  at  him  gravely,  and  went  over  to  arrange 
the  baby  in  his  crib.  Then  she  turned  back  to  him.  "I'm 
going  to  stay  with  Miriam  to-night,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
know  when  I  shall  see  her  again,  and  there  is  much  I  want  to 
talk  about."  She  went  over  to  him  and  kissed  him  good-night, 
as  usual. 

"  Don't  stay  awake  too  long,"  he  said,  the  flash  of  interest 
already  faded. 

Then  he  entered  his  own  room,  while  she  went  down  the 
hall  to  Miriam's. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AS  Agnes  opened  Miriam's  door  she  saw  her  friend  kneel 
ing  before  her  trunk,  while  Miss  Margaret  sat  near  the 
open  window  talking  to  her.  The  light  breeze  was  grateful 
to  the  little  lady's  flushed  cheeks  as  she  discussed  in  an  ani 
mated  monologue,  interrupted  by  occasional  appreciative  in 
terpolations  from  Miriam,  some  of  the  things  which  were 
nearest  to  her  heart.  Soon  after  Agnes  entered,  however, 
and  began  to  help  Miriam  fold  and  pack  the  soft  and  mellow- 
toned  fabrics  strewn  upon  the  floor  and  chairs,  Miss  Mar 
garet  rose  and  wished  the  younger  women,  as  was  her  wont, 
a  good  night's  sleep  and  pleasant  dreams. 

Miriam  and  Agnes  filled  and  locked  the  far-traveled  trunk 
and  portmanteau,  and  then  put  out  the  light  and  sat  for  a 
time  on  the  window-sill,  looking  into  the  starry  and  moonlit 
heavens  and  over  the  gently  rising  country  to  the  dark  prom 
ontory  where  Winston  College  stood.  They  spoke  of 
memories,  living  for  an  hour  or  more  entirely  in  the  past. 

At  last  Miriam  stood  up  and  turned  away  from  the  win 
dow.  "  It's  very  late,  Agnes.  We  must  go  to  sleep."  But 
they  began  to  talk  again  as  soon  as  they  had  gone  to  bed. 

A  broad  stream  of  moonlight  falling  across  the  room  to 
the  foot  of  the  bed  filled  the  room  with  light. 

"  If  I  were  you,  Agnes,"  said  Miriam  at  last,  calling  her 
thoughts  resolutely  to  the  present,  "  I  should  get  rid  of 
Eliza.  I've  been  thinking  a  good  deal  about  it  lately.  This 
second  girl  your  mother  sent  up  from  Kent  isn't  going  to 
be  able  to  live  with  her.  I  don't  believe  anybody  could  but 
you  and  Aunt  Margaret.  It  will  be  easier  for  you  to  have 
two  good  girls  than  one  Eliza." 

Agnes  sighed.  Then  she  spoke  with  decision.  "I  intend 
to  get  rid  of  her,  Miriam,  and  soon,  but  it's  not  easy  to  dis- 

279 


280  THE    BALLINGTONS 

lodge  an  old  servant.  Eliza  has  been  here  ever  since  Ferdi 
nand  was  born.  He  says  it's  only  women  who  can't  get  on 
together  peaceably  in  the  same  house.  He  thinks  Aunt  Mar 
garet's  to  blame,  and  he  even  suggested  boarding  her  at  Miss 
Matcham's  boarding  house.  Of  course  that  would  kill  Aunt 
Margaret.  Ferdinand  and  I  must  go  out  of  this  house  if 
necessary,  but  never  Aunt  Margaret.  It's  her  home." 

"  Another  thing  I've  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about, 
Agnes,"  continued  Miriam,  "is  the  music.  There  is  no 
reason  why  you  shouldn't  do  much  with  your  voice.  You  are 
young  and  strong,  and  even  when  the  children  are  little  by 
practicing  carefully  you  can  keep  your  tones.  Then,  too." 
she  added  earnestly,  "  there's  nothing  like  it  to  soften  the 
harsh  things  of  life.  For  that  reason  I  live  with  a  musi 
cian  in  New  York.  I  never  model  so  well  as  when  she  is 
playing.  I  noticed  when  I  came  here  four  weeks  ago  that  you 
were  despondent,  fagged  in  mind  and  body,  and  now  that  you 
have  gone  back  to  singing  again  you  have  back  your  youth." 

Agnes  waited  a  moment,  then  replied  slowly,  "  'Twasn't 
the  music  that  was  the  matter  with  me,  Miriam.  I  had  some 
thing  on  my  mind." 

"That's  just  it,"  commented  her  friend.  "If  you  had 
kept  right  on  singing  you  could  have  sung  your  cares  down, 
as  the  good  brothers  and  sisters  used  to  sing  down  long- 
winded  talkers  in  revival  meetings  back  in  Vermont.  You'll 
have  something  on  your  mind  again  some  time.  Sing  it 
down ! " 

"  Miriam,"  said  Agnes  with  resolution,  "  my  conscience  is 
troubling  me." 

"  Well,  so  does  everyone's,"  Miriam  answered  sadly. 

"  But  mine  has  good  reason,"  Agnes  continued.  "  Miriam, 
I've  always  felt  that  I  was  guilty  of  my  father's  death." 

There  was  a  startled  silence. 

"During  my  mother's  absence  I  neglected  him.  We  had 
no  girl  and  Aunt  Mattie  couldn't  cook.  Beatrice  Mott  was 
visiting  in  Kent  then,  and  I  was  carried  away.  I  don't  think 
it  expresses  it  too  strongly  to  say  my  father  was  starved." 


,THE    BALLINGTONS  281 

"  Have  you  ever  told  this  to  anyone  else  ?  "  asked  Miriam 
abruptly. 

"  No.  I  thought  it  would  hurt  my  mother  too  much.  If 
I  should  tell  anyone,  it  would  be  Ferdinand.  I've  tried  to  be 
honest  with  him." 

"  Well,  Agnes,"  said  Miriam  gently,  "  it  may  be  true  that 
you  neglected  your  father  during  the  last  of  his  life,  but  I've 
never  heard  that  spinal  meningitis  is  the  result  of  starvation. 
Nor  would  it  ease  your  father's  spirit  for  you  to  tell  Ferdi 
nand  that  you  killed  him." 

"  But  this  same  negligence  and  incapacity  have  shown 
themselves  again  and  again  in  other  relations,"  Agnes  went 
on  with  a  self-control  that  would  not  have  been  possible  from 
her  four  weeks  before.  "  I  never  seem  to  know  how  to  grap 
ple  with  a  situation  until  it's  gone  by.  I  didn't  treat  my 
mother  rightly,  and  I  think  I  have  lost  my  chance  to  influ 
ence  my  husband  on  serious  questions.  I  was  ignorant  and 
hysterical  when  I  married,  and  you  know  how  hard  it  is  to 
gain  back  a  good  opinion  once  lost." 

"  These  are  things  we  all  have  to  face,"  said  Miriam. 
"  We  may  count  ourselves  happy  if  we  find  out  how  to  grap 
ple  with  a  situation  after  it  has  gone.  Most  people  never 
do  that." 

Agnes'  voice  fell  lower  and  became  more  tense  as  she  con 
tinued.  "My  husband  has  told  the  truth  to  me  ever  since 
we  were  married.  I  have  wished  many  times  that  he  wouldn't. 
For  some  time  past  now  I've  been  overwhelmed  with  shame  in 
contrasting  my  attitude  toward  him  with  his  toward  me. 
For  a  year  now  I  have  deceived  him  continually  in  one  re 
spect.  I  needed  some  money  a  year  ago,  and,  in  order  to  get 
it  without  his  knowledge,  I  falsified  my  housekeeping  ac 
counts.  Since  then  I  have  sent  things  home  several  times 
without  his  knowledge  which  he  supposed  I  was  buying  for 
his  own  house.  Now  my  books  are  far  from  right.  It's  the 
same  old  story,  beginning  with  a  little  theft  and  drifting  on. 
I  tell  you,"  she  said  with  bitter  scorn,  "  I  know  how  these 
absconding  bank  clerks  get  into  it.  Here's  poor  old  Aunt 


282  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Margaret,  who  hasn't  any  more  head  for  figures  than  a 
chicken,  she  ran  the  house  honorably  for  twenty  years;  and 
my  father's  daughter "  Here  she  suddenly  stopped. 

"  Of  course  you  had  a  reason  for  it,"  Miriam  interrupted 
hastily.  "  Never  mind  telling  me  what  it  was.  How  much 
are  you  behind  ?  " 

"Four  hundred  and  thirty-seven  dollars." 

"Well,  I  think  you  were  very  economical,"  said  Miriam, 
with  what  Agnes  considered  ill-timed  levity.  "  You  must 
let  me  replace  that  money  and  keep  it  as  our  private  arrange 
ment.  After  that  see  to  it " 

Agnes  took  her  friend's  hand  affectionately.  "  That's  like 
you,  Miriam,  but  the  only  decent  thing  for  me  to  do  is  to 
confess  the  whole  thing  and  start  in  fair  and  square.  There 
must  be  perfect  honesty  between  husband  and  wife." 

Miriam  hesitated.  Should  she  leave  Agnes  naked  and 
innocent  in  her  arduous  paradise,  or  should  she  be  the  ser 
pent  of  worldly  wisdom  in  her  friend's  tree  of  life,  clothe  and 
send  her  out  into  a  darker  but  more  real  world? 

"  That  is  the  right  spirit,  Agnes,"  she  sai4  at  length, 
"  and  I'm  glad  you  have  it." 

She  was  going  to  stop  there,  but  the  other  impulse  was 
too  strong.  She  continued  energetically,  "I'm  very  glad 
you  have  it.  But  a  woman  must  have  something  more  than 
the  spirit  of  making  confidences  with  the  very  best  man  who 
ever  lived.  Men  seldom  are  as  confiding  to  their  wives  as 
wives  think  they  ought  to  be  to  their  husbands.  You  say 
Ferdinand  never  has  hesitated  to  tell  the  truth  to  you.  Is  it 
because  he  is  honest,  or  because  he  isn't  ashamed  of  it?  Ha,s 
he  ever  told  you  what  he  considers  to  be  one  single  weakness 
in  himself?  of  one  mistake?  of  one  error?  " 

Agnes  was  silent. 

Miriam  continued,  "  I  thought  not,  and  I  must  say  that 
in  this  particular  he  has  shown  himself  wiser  than  you. 
I  don't  believe  the  man  ever  lived  who  was  not  forced  to 
confess  to  himself  sometimes  that  he  had  done  the  wrong 
thing.  It  doesn't  follow  that  he  ought  to  rush  up  on  the 


THE     BALLINGTONS  283 

housetop  and  proclaim  his  fault,  nor  even  down  into  the 
house  and  tell  his  wife  about  it — that  is,  provided  he  rectifies 
it.  Someone  says  that  more  trouble  has  been  caused  in 
domestic  life  by  morbid  confession  than  by  deceit." 

Agnes  was  shocked. 

Miriam  continued  unmoved.  "  I  know  it's  a  hard  doc 
trine — too  hard  for  the  wicked.  They  ought  to  confess  every 
time.  Only  the  righteous  ought  to  hold  their  tongues.  I  beg 
you  not  to  tell  Ferdinand  about  this  money,  nor  about  any 
other  peccadilloes  you  may  be  guilty  of.  I  tell  you,  Agnes, 
you  will  make  an  irretrievable  mistake  if  you  undertake  to 
tell  anybody  in  this  life  everything  you  do.  Don't  commit 
any  faults,  but  don't  tell  about  them  if  you  do.  He  never 
will  forget  them,  and  the  time  will  come  when  you  will  wish 
he  didn't  know." 

Agnes  was  silent,  thinking  drearily  that  they  were  not 
peccadilloes,  but  sins,  and  therefore  she  must  tell  Ferdinand, 
although  she  knew  that  she  would  suffer  for  it.  There  was 
but  one  path  for  her,  one  of  perfect  integrity.  There  must 
be  no  deceits  behind.  Concealment  of  her  past  faults  would 
be  cowardice  and  lack  of  will-power,  the  same  things  which 
had  led  her  into  them.  The  only  hope  of  a  fortunate  out 
come  of  her  life  with  Ferdinand  lay  in  the  development  of  a 
controlled  and  wisely  directed  will,  a  power  in  her  which  he 
could  recognize  and  respect  as  he  did  his  mother's  memory. 

As  she  did  not  reply  Miriam  continued :  "  Why  do  you 
allow  Mr.  Ballington  to  deprive  you  of  financial  equality, 
Agnes?  If  you  were  the  active  wage-earner  would  you  not 
recognize  him  as  participating  in  the  right  to  dispose  of  your 
income?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Doubtless  you  think  that  self-sacrifice  in  this  matter  is 
better  than  what  seems  to  you  a  vulgar  insistence  for  a 
separate  purse."  Miriam  spoke  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 
The  matter  so  personal  and  sore  to  Agnes  had  long  been 
one  of  liberal  and  impersonal  interest  to  her  friend.  "  But 
let  me  tell  you,"  she  went  on  more  earnestly,  "  if  this  were  a 


284  THE     BALLINGTONS 

question  of  spiritual  liberty  instead  of  material,  you  would 
see  at  once  what  is  your  duty.  You  are  hurting  your  hus 
band  as  well  as  yourself  by  failing  to  assert  your  just  claims. 
It  is  no  more  moral  to  condone  a  material  wrong  than  to 
submit  to  a  spiritual  wrong.  We  submit  to  injustice  not  for 
ourselves  only.  That's  the  point.  We  strengthen  tyranny 
everywhere  when  we  falter  before  it  ourselves.  If  you  won't 
assert  yourself  against  injustice  in  money  matters  or  any 
other  tangible  affair,  you  will  be  forced  some  time  to  face  it 
in  something  more  momentous.  Moreover,  you  will  come  to 
that  final  struggle  without  prestige  against  an  opposing 
force  accustomed  to  dictatorship." 

After  a  considerable  pause  Agnes  answered,  "  I  know 
that  the  sordid  and  material  forms  in  which  spiritual  ques 
tions  clothe  themselves  confuse  and  get  the  best  of  me.  I 
do  not  think  it  cheap  or  vulgar  to  meet  them,  but  I  am  afraid 
of  the  consequences  which  direct  grappling  with  them  may 
bring  to  me.  They  will  raise  very  large  problems  for  me, 
larger  than  you  realize,  and  I  cannot  yet  see  clearly  how  I 
ought  to  solve  them." 

The  silence  which  followed  was  rich  in  mutual  understand 
ing.  At  length  Miriam  broke  it :  "  To  go  back  once 
more,  Agnes,  to  a  pleasant  topic — your  old  friend  Profes 
sor  Stoddard  is  going  to  start  a  summer  conservatory  up 
here,  to  be  a  permanent  thing,  I  believe,  and  I've  no  doubt 
that  he  would  be  eager  to  obtain  your  services  as  an  assistant 
teacher.  He  never  has  forgotten  your  voice,  always  asks 
after  you  every  time  I  see  him.  You  had  better  seize  every 
opportunity  of  a  musical  kind.  We  never  know  what  is 
going  to  happen  to  us  in  this  world.  There  are  two  reasons 
why  a  woman  of  your  talent  ought  not  to  be  a  mere  house 
keeper.  One  is  that  Mr.  Ballington  might  lose  all  his  money 
and  die  of  the  shock,  leaving  you  with  a  family  to  support. 
There  is  your  mother  doing  it.  It  is  happening  every  day. 
The  other  is  that  the  great  goddess  Nature  will  revenge  her 
self  upon  an  unthankful  debtor.  For  my  part,  I  consider 
that  the  moral  obligation  imposed  by  an  undoubted  gift 


THE     BALLINGTONS  285 

should  be  perhaps  the  determining  factor  in  marking  out  a 
woman's  life.  I  never  should  feel  right  myself  to  marry.  I 
feel  that  I  have  another  work  lying  closer  to  me.  You  are 
happier  than  I  am  in  having  your  children,  but  you  are  also 
encumbered.  If  the  time  ever  comes  when  your  burden  gets 
too  heavy,  if  you  are  called  upon  to  sustain  losses  of  any 
kind  " — she  spoke  the  last  words  slowly  and  Agnes  under 
stood  what  lay  behind  them — "  then  I  want  you  to  remem 
ber  that  I  am  free  and  able  to  help  you  and  that  you  are  the 
nearest  thing  to  me." 

A  thrill  of  energy  and  hope  tingled  along  Agnes'  nerves. 
An  unlooked-for  power  had  placed  itself  behind  her.  Defeat 
vanished  from  the  perspective  of  the  future.  If  it  came  to 
the  worst,  she  might  begin  over  again,  and  in  Miriam's 
vocabulary  there  seemed  to  be  no  "  too  late." 

After  a  time  she  responded  in  a  tone  of  high  resolve,  "  You 
have  put  new  life  into  me.  Life  is  going  easier  from  now  on. 
It  gives  me  infinite  rest  and  peace  to  think  of  you  behind  me 
in  the  battle  of  life.  I  shall  remember  what  you  have  said." 

When  the  town  clock  struck  two  both  were  asleep. 


CHAPTER  V 

\\7HEN  Tom  arrived  at  the  station  the  next  morning  to 
see  Miriam  off  for  New  York  his  eyes  fell  upon  Ferdi 
nand's  neat  suit-case,  ready  for  travel,  standing  near  Miriam's 
on  the  floor.  "What's  that?  "  he  exclaimed  suspiciously,  his 
ready  color  rising,  as  he  looked  at  Agnes  for  an  explanation. 

Miriam  interposed.  "  Mr.  Ballington  is  going  to  make  the 
trip  down  to  New  York  with  me,"  she  said,  and  then  handed 
her  umbrella  to  Tom,  remarking,  "  I've  been  trying  for  ten 
minutes  to  snap  the  strap  together  and  no  one  has  offered  to 
help  me." 

Tom  bent  over  the  refractory  clasp  silently,  his  heart  beat 
ing  like  a  trip-hammer  with  rage  at  this  move  of  Ferdinand's. 

"  Yes,  I'm  going  on  through  to  Washington,"  explained 
Ferdinand,  magnanimously  making  Tom  the  confidant  of  his 
plans.  "  I  had  to  go,  anyway,  and  I  thought  I  could  see  to 
Miss  Cass'  luggage." 

Tom  glanced  at  the  umbrella  with  an  insane  impulse  to 
lift  it  and  smite  Ferdinand  to  the  earth. 

"  He  is  going  down  to  see  about  his  patents,"  Agnes  added. 

Tom  pulled  himself  together  and  chatted  moodily  until  the 
train  came  in.  Then  he  pushed  Ferdinand  aside  as  the  latter 
was  stooping  to  pick  up  Miriam's  suit-case.  "  You  have  your 
own  to  carry,"  he  said  grimly.  He  assisted  Miriam  into  the 
car,  arranged  her  comfortably,  gave  her  a  couple  of  the  latest 
magazines  and  a  newspaper,  lifted  his  hat  formally  and  left 
her.  Ferdinand  was  waiting  to  enter  the  seat. 

After  the  train  had  gone,  Agnes  and  Tom  rode  down 
together  to  the  city,  Agnes  talking  affectionately  of  Miriam 
and  what  her  friendship  meant.  The  station  was  situated  on 
a  hill  overlooking  the  town ;  they  drove  down  slowly,  and 
before  they  reached  the  car-shops  Agnes  had  communicated 
her  spirit  of  bravery  to  him.  He  went  into  the  office,  hung 

286 


THE     BALLINGTONS  287 

up  his  hat,  opened  his  big  ledger,  eyed  it  as  though  it  were  a 
battle-field,  and  began  his  campaign. 

Agnes,  too,  was  entering,  she  knew  full  well,  on  a  struggle 
which  would  tax  her  to  the  uttermost.  Whither  it  might  lead 
her  or  what  might  be  its  outcome  it  was  futile  to  forecast. 

Two  obvious  necessities  confronted  her  at  the  outset :  one  of 
them  Eliza's  dismissal,  the  other  the  confession  of  her  deceit 
to  Ferdinand.  Now  that  she  had  determined  to  make  this 
confession  she  was  anxious  for  Ferdinand's  return,  that  it 
might  be  over  speedily,  and  she  waited  somewhat  restlessly  as 
the  days  passed  and  his  short  notes  and  telegrams  announced 
a  still  further  delay.  She  had  determined  to  leave  Eliza's  dis 
charge  until  her  husband's  return,  in  order  to  vindicate  her 
self  from  the  cowardice  which  tempted  her  to  get  rid  of  the 
Irishwoman  while  he  was  away,  and  thus  to  avoid  a  collision 
with  his  will. 

Each  day,  however,  seemed  to  increase  by  geometrical  pro 
gression  the  domestic  friction.  Eliza  took  advantage  of 
Ferdinand's  absence  to  tyrannize  over  Miss  Margaret,  while 
she  sulked  before  Agnes'  face  and  threatened  behind  her  back. 
After  a  week  of  it  Agnes  resolved  to  put  an  end  at  once  to 
what  would  be  soon  an  impossible  situation. 

The  crisis  between  her  and  the  old  servant  came  suddenly 
one  day. 

When  it  was  over  Agnes  went  into  Miss  Margaret's  room 
and  shut  the  door.  "Aunt  Margaret,"  she  said  quietly,  "I 
have  discharged  Eliza." 

Miss  Ballington  began  to  tremble.  She  had  felt  this 
coining,  and,  much  to  Agnes'  perplexity,  had  striven  pain 
fully  to  prevent  it.  At  last  Agnes  knew  the  reason.  Her 
altercation  with  Eliza  had  brought  out  several  revelations, 
one  of  them  explaining  much  that  had  seemed  curious  in  Miss 
Margaret's  relations  with  the  cook.  Sympathy  with  her 
aunt  followed  swiftly  upon  the  discovery. 

"  She  says,  Aunt  Margaret,"  said  Agnes,  going  over  to  the 
couch  and  taking  hold  of  her  aunt's  hand,  "  that  you  owe  her 
some  money.  Is  that  so,  dear?  " 


288  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Agnes  could  feel  the  little  form  quiver  as  Miss  Ballington 
looked  up  with  a  supreme  effort  to  retain  dignity  and  self- 
control.  "  The  little  Flynn  baby  had  no  milk,  Agnes.  They 
all  were  starving." 

"  How  much  is  it,  Aunt  Margaret  ?  "  Agnes  asked,  with  a 
slight  pressure  of  the  feverish  hand. 

Miss  Ballington  did  not  answer.  Agnes  repeated  her  ques 
tion  gently. 

Miss  Margaret  raised  her  distressed  face  once  more,  and 
said  with  more  assurance,  "  Donald  always  gives  me  money  on 
my  birthday,  and  perhaps  Sarah  would  buy  my  camel's-hair 
shawl.  She  always  has  wanted  it." 

"  But  it  must  be  paid  now,  dear.  Eliza  says  she  won't  go 
till  she  gets  it.  You  must  let  me  know  and  I  will  pay  it  out 
of  the  house-money." 

Miss  Margaret  drew  her  hand  away  spasmodically.  "  But 
then  Ferdinand  would  know!"  she  said  breathlessly,  and  she 
added  with  a  frightened  whisper,  "  I  daren't  have  him  know." 

Agnes  waited  a  moment,  thinking. 

"  Is  it  really  nearly  two  hundred  dollars,  as  Eliza  says  ?  " 
she  asked  at  last. 

She  read  an  affirmative  answer  in  her  aunt's  face,  and 
then  she  realized  that  the  loans  had  been  going  on,  perhaps, 
for  years.  This  had  been  Miss  Margaret's  way  of  surmount 
ing  financial  stringency,  as  falsifying  accounts  had  been  her 
own. 

The  two  women  set  to  work  to  find  some  solution,  and 
though  Agnes  insisted  for  a  time  that  Ferdinand  should  be 
told,  she  knew  in  her  heart  from  the  beginning  how  it  would 
end.  What  she  was  prepared  to  meet  for  her  own  misdoing 
she  had  not  the  heart  to  put  upon  the  only  survivor  of  the 
old  generation  of  Ballingtons.  Moreover,  there  was  an  added 
reason.  Flynn's  case  was  a  notorious  one.  He  was  a  skilled 
workman  who  had  insisted  in  disregarding  one  of  Ferdinand's 
pet  regulations  at  the  shops  and  whom  Ferdinand  had  made 
it  a  point  to  force  into  submission  by  way  of  example  to  the 
rest.  To  his  surprise  and  mystification,  Flynn,  with  a  large 


THE    BALLINGTONS  289 

family  dependent  upon  him,  had  managed  to  exist  through  a 
hard  winter,  and  had  just  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  better 
position  in  a  new  steel  plant.  There  was  no  telling  to  what 
lengths  Ferdinand  might  be  incensed  against  Aunt  Margaret 
should  he  learn  that  she  had  been  supporting  Flynn's  family 
during  the  late  unpleasantness. 

"  Never  mind,  Aunt  Margaret,"  Agnes  said  at  last,  "  we 
are  losing  time  talking  here.  You  can  easily  get  the  money, 
and  there's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't.  I'm  going  to  ask 
Donald  to  lend  it  to  you." 

She  went  to  the  telephone,  hesitated,  then  wrote  a  note 
instead,  and  carried  it  out  to  Sam  at  the  barn,  telling  him 
to  deliver  it  at  once.  As  he  was  leaving  she  said  to  him, 
"  See  that  you  give  it  to  Mr.  Donald  Ballington  himself, 
Sam." 

The  man  tipped  his  hat  and  went  off. 

Within  an  hour  he  came  back  with  a  package,  which  Eliza 
brought  upstairs  to  Agnes.  The  inflamed  little  eyes  of  the 
Irishwoman  had  a  canny  look  as  she  handed  it  over.  Agnes 
tore  it  open  with  indescribable  relief.  Donald  had  sent  the 
money  f o.r  her  aunt  with  a  single  line  saying,  "  Thank  you." 
She  at  once  paid  Eliza,  and  took  a  receipt. 

To  her  surprise  the  Irishwoman,  who  at  first  had  insisted 
that  she  should  remain  until  Ferdinand's  return,  now  an 
nounced  that  she  should  leave  before  dinner.  Some  hours 
later  they  heard  her  thumping  down  her  trunk,  a  stair  at  a 
time,  without  Sam's  assistance,  from  the  third  floor  to  the 
kitchen.  She  left  the  premises  in  sinister  taciturnity  late  in 
the  afternoon. 

The  uneasiness  which  Agnes  felt  in  seeing  the  hostile  figure 
go  off  through  the  garden  was  dissipated,  as  she  turned  back 
to  the  kitchen,  by  the  cheerful  face  of  the  strong  second 
girl  from  Kent. 

"  I've  got  the  dinner  almost  ready,  Mrs.  Ballington,"  the 
latter  said,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  was  giving  a  blessing  from 
the  Lord.  "  And  if  you  like,  ma'am,  I'll  send  up  to  Kent  this 
afternoon  for  my  sister  Joan  to  come." 


290  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Agnes  went  at  once  upstairs  to  her  desk  and  wrote  to 
Ferdinand  of  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  the  house 
hold. 

Then  she  sat  still  with  her  pen  poised  in  the  air.  It  would 
be  better,  while  she  was  about  it,  to  clear  her  conscience  at  the 
same  time.  The  pen  dropped  to  the  paper,  and  she  wrote  out 
plainly  the  unhappy  story  of  the  diverted  money  and  the 
tampered  accounts. 

She  was  about  to  add  Donald's  wedding  gift  to  the  con 
fession,  but  stopped,  feeling  that  she  had  no  right,  having 
accepted  it,  to  involve  him  in  difficulty  because  of  it.  So  she 
wrote  this  to  her  husband : 

There  is  one  other  thing  I  should  like  to  tell  you,  and  if  it  concerned 
myself  alone  I  should.  It  happened  before  we  were  married.  My 
chief  regret  concerning  it  is  that  you  could  not  know  it.  As  it  is, 
I  cannot  gratify  my  desire  to  tell  you  more  than  this. 

When  she  sealed  the  letter  she  held  it  in  her  hand  an  instant. 
"  This  means  untold  shame  to  me,"  she  reasoned  clearly,  "  but 
at  last  I  am  square  with  the  world,  and  I  can  start  again." 
After  dinner  she  mailed  the  letter. 

Five  days  later  Ferdinand  returned. 

The  trip  south  had  been  satisfactory  to  him  in  a  business 
way,  and  it  had  been  a  recreation  as  well.  He  occasionally 
allowed  himself  these  relaxations  from  his  methodical  and  dis 
ciplined  course  of  life,  having  the  comfortable  conviction  that 
only  those  can  enjoy  who  prepare  themselves  for  a  few  golden 
hours  of  pleasure  by  months  and  even  years  of  industry  and 
sobriety.  While  in  Washington  he  had  gone  around  with  a 
couple  of  spirited  and  accommodating  political  friends,  and 
when  the  time  came  for  leaving  he  was  permeated  with  a  glow 
of  content.  He  had  learned  how  to  combine  two  characters 
generally  considered  antagonistic,  those  of  the  Stoic  and  the 
Epicurean.  He  had  left  business  without  haste,  and  he  was 
returning  without  regret,  and  on  the  whole  he  reminded  him 
self  of  Huxley's  "  calm,  strong  angel,"  who  plays  the  chess 
game  of  life  with  less  able  opponents. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  291 

During  his  absence  from  home  he  reflected  off  and  on  in 
moments  of  leisure  upon  Agnes'  returning  spirits,  and  her 
ability  to  hold  the  respect  of  such  a  woman  as  Miriam  Cass. 

He  had  found  himself  unable  to  get  on  a  more  confidential 
footing  with  Miriam  when  he  was  alone  with  her  during  the 
journey  than  he  was  when  Agnes  was  present.  He  had  tried 
to  resume  conversation  about  Agnes  and  about  himself,  but, 
without  realizing  how  she  did  it,  he  was  conscious  that  she 
parried  his  beginnings  and  directed  the  conversation  to  imper 
sonal  topics.  He  acknowledged  at  length  that  she  intended 
to  speak  intimately  with  him  where  his  wife  could  hear  her,  or 
not  at  all.  His  irritation  toward  Miriam  was  counter-bal 
anced  by  his  admiration  of  her  wisdom,  and  it  was  with  the 
latter  sensation  uppermost  in  his  mind  that  he  turned  his 
attention  away  from  her. 

Along  with  his  reviving  hopes  in  his  wife  had  gone  a  dis 
quieting  sense  of  his  neglect  of  her  the  last  year.  He  wished 
that  he  had  put  through  without  interruption  his  original 
plan  for  conducting  their  marital  relations;  not  that  he  had 
overstepped  a  man's  privileges  unduly,  but  he  was  above  the 
ordinary  man's  privileges,  and  he  had  started  out  upon  ideal 
lines  laid  down  by  enlightened  masculine  reason. 

It  was  at  such  a  moment  of  reflection  that  he  received  his 
wife's  letter.  The  announcement  of  Eliza's  discharge, 
astounding  as  it  was  to  him,  was  dwarfed  in  importance  as  he 
passed  on  to  the  confession  at  the  close  of  the  letter.  Surprise 
and  anger  that  for  so  long  a  period  such  subterfuges  had  been 
employed  without  his  suspicion  were  speedily  swallowed  up  in 
another  emotion.  He  dated  the  receipt  of  the  letter  and  then 
put  it  up  carefully  in  a  private  notebook.  With  the  excep 
tion  of  her  half-confidence,  he  would  consider  his  score  with 
his  wife  balanced,  and  upon  his  return  they  would  both  of 
them,  as  he  expressed  it,  "  begin  over."  The  half-confidence, 
however,  rankled  in  his  memory. 

He  half  expected  to  find  Agnes  waiting  for  him  at  the 
train,  was  disappointed  to  find  Sam  alone,  and  was  surprised 
at  his  own  eagerness  for  his  wife  as  he  rode  home. 


292  THE     BALLINGTONS 

As  he  entered  the  house  he  heard  the  children's  voices  in 
the  library,  and  went  there  first,  expecting  to  find  their 
mother. 

"  Where  is  Agnes  ?  "  he  asked  of  his  aunt,  who  was  holding 
little  Stephen  in  her  lap. 

"  She  went  up  to  her  room  this  very  minute,  dear,"  answered 
Miss  Margaret,  noticing  the  brilliance  of  his  eyes. 

He  left  the  room,  went  upstairs,  knocked  at  his  wife's  door, 
then  opened  it  without  waiting  for  an  answer. 

Agnes  was  waiting  for  him,  apparently  unoccupied.  He 
noticed,  too,  that  she  wore  the  maroon  dress  in  which  he 
especially  liked  to  see  her.  She  looked  at  him  anxiously,  but 
did  not  speak. 

Ferdinand  crossed  the  room,  bent  down  and  kissed  her,  told 
her  he  had  come  home  earlier  than  he  had  intended,  that  he  had 
hoped  to  see  her  at  the  station,  that  he  had  looked  for  her 
first  in  the  library,  and  that  Estelle  had  wanted  to  follow  him 
upstairs.  Then  he  talked  to  her  a  little  about  the  possible 
future  for  his  invention. 

To  all  this  she  responded  with  nervous  acquiescence. 

At  last  he  broached  the  matter  of  her  letter,  limiting  his 
discussion  to  the  financial  part  of  it. 

"Why  is  it  that  you  shrink  from  my  advice  on  business 
matters,  Agnes?"  he  finished.  "I  am  a  business  man.  It  is 
absolutely  useless  to  try  to  help  Pleasant  Mabie  if  you  allow 
him  to  manage  his  own  affairs.  You  have  thrown  all  that 
money  away.  Anyone  will  tell  you  that  I  am  an  unusually 
successful  financier,  and  it's  because  I  won't  be  worked  on  by 
my  sympathies  to  chuck  money  into  the  stove.  Experience 
has  taught  me  what  I  know,  and  you  should  be  willing  to 
accept  facts  from  me." 

"  I  am  willing  to  do  that,  but  I  could  not  consent  that  my 
sister  should  become  your  hired  help,"  said  Agnes,  disap 
pointed  and  worried  that  Ferdinand  took  no  note,  apparently, 
of  the  ethical  side  of  the  question. 

"  The  only  thing  which  need  concern  hired  help  is  that  it 
does  its  work  well,"  said  Ferdinand  imperturbably. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  293 

Agnes  met  his  eyes  seriously.  "  How  could  she  do  her  work 
well?  You  would  not  be  satisfied  with  what  Helen  could  do. 
You  would  demand  as  much  from  her  as  though  she  were  a 
stout  German  peasant  woman." 

"  It  was  her  own  choice  to  marry  a  farmer.  I  am  sorry  for 
her ;  but,  of  course,  that  doesn't  mend  matters." 

As  she  did  not  speak,  he  took  up  the  conversation  again. 
"  It  seems  curious  to  me,"  he  said,  scrutinizing  her,  "  that 
you  always  have  felt  such  reluctance  to  my  knowing  how  you 
spend  your  money.  I  have  no  such  feeling  with  regard  to 
you." 

"  You  can  decide  for  yourself  how  you  wish  to  spend  it. 
I  have  to  submit  to  your  judgment."  Agnes  spoke  gravely, 
knowing  that  the  inevitable  consequences  of  the  stand  she  had 
decided  to  take  would  soon  be  upon  her.  Ferdinand's  igno 
rance  of  the  seriousness  of  the  crisis  between  them  intensified 
her  own  earnestness. 

"  I  furnish  you  with  all  the  comforts  of  life,"  said  Ferdi 
nand,  glancing  around  the  room,  and  then  touching  lightly 
the  rich  gown  she  wore. 

"  Except  liberty,"  said  Agnes  briefly. 

"  Certainly.  It  is  the  husband's  prerogative  to  decide 
matters  for  his  family."  The  persistent  failure  of  his  wife  to 
affect  his  mood  as  he  had  a  right  to  expect  after  an  unusual 
separation,  also  her  refusal  to  appreciate  the  full  extent  of 
his  magnanimity,  were  beginning  to  irritate  him. 

"  Would  you  permit  another  person  to  make  your  decisions 
for  you  ?  "  asked  Agnes  thoughtfully. 

"  No.  It  is  a  man's  privilege  that  he  may  make  his  own," 
said  Ferdinand,  who  was  at  last  aware  of  something  behind 
all  this. 

Agnes  was  silent  for  some  moments.  Then  she  said  slowly, 
without  raising  her  voice,  but  with  the  hereditary  note  which 
had  rung  through  Kent  ever  since  Dr.  Sidney  first  brought  his 
wife  there  to  live :  "  Ferdinand,  I  wrote  to  you  that  I  was 
going  to  make  a  new  start.  It  remains  with  you  to  decide 
just  what  that  start  will  be.  Henceforth  I  must  have  a 


294  THE    BALLINGTONS 

definite  sum  of  money  to  use  as  my  own.  Will  you  give  this 
to  me?" 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it,  if  I  do  not  ?  "  asked 
Ferdinand  coldly. 

"  I  hope  you  will  not  refuse.  If  your  sympathies  were  as 
well  developed  as  I  hope  they  some  day  will  be,  I  should  not 
demand  this.  But  I  want " 

She  was  about  to  say,  "  I  want  to  help  my  mother  occasion 
ally  without  your  feeling  at  each  little  gift  that  she  is  depen 
dent  upon  you."  She  prudently  checked  this  impulse,  how 
ever,  remembering  that  Ferdinand  had  casually  remarked 
upon  several  occasions  since  Pleasant's  letter,  "  I  am  already 
supporting  three  families,  and  now  my  wife's  brother-in-law 
has  applied  to  me."  She  feared  that  his  next  allusion  to  the 
subject  might  include  her  mother  as  the  fifth  family. 

"Well?"  inquired  Ferdinand,  waiting. 

"  If  you  do  not  give  it  to  me,"  she  answered,  "  I  shall 
earn  it." 

"How?'* 

"  I  shall  ask  Professor  Dimmock  for  students  to  coach.  I 
shall  apply  for  a  position  in  Westminster  choir,  and  next 
summer  I  shall  become  an  assistant,  if  possible,  in  Mr.  Stod- 
dard's  summer  school." 

"  What  about  the  children  ?  You  are  forgetting  them,  are 
you  not  ?  "  said  Ferdinand  in  a  hard  voice. 

"  I  have  considered  the  children,"  Agnes  answered. 

"  This  alternative  of  yours  implies  a  threat,"  he  said  after 
a  moment. 

"It  states  a  determination,"  she  answered  very  low. 

"  Very  well.  I  will  consider  it."  His  glance  met  hers  with 
what  might  have  been  courtesy  or  might  have  been  hate. 

With  a  sudden  change  of  feeling  she  reached  out  and  took 
his  hand.  "  If  you  knew  how  miserable  this  makes  me ! "  she 
cried  earnestly.  "  I  can't  bear  to  have  you  leave  me  like  this, 
although  I  know  I  am  right.  Only  listen  to  me  a  moment. 
To  us  wives  our  position  seems  unjust.  I  know  that  hysteri 
cal  women  always  say  what  I  am  going  to  say,  but  it  is  true 


THE    BALLINGTONS  295 

that  we  take  our  lives  in  our  hands  when  we  marry.  We 
stake  everything  we  have.  If  it  were  merely  a  business  trans 
action,  it  would  be  the  highest-priced  position  open  to  human 
beings.  The  reality  is  that  if  our  husbands  give  us  anything, 
it  is  called  a  *  gift,'  and  if  they  give  us  much,  they  are  called 
*  generous.'  Is  it  right  that  mature  and  reasonable  beings 
should  be  dependent  upon  gifts  after  they  have  given  up 
incomes  ?  " 

Ferdinand  suffered  his  hand  to  remain  in  hers  till  she  had 
finished.  Then  he  withdrew  it.  "  Are  you  ready  to  go  down 
to  dinner?  "  he  asked. 

They  went  down  together,  each  silent  and  cold.  Miss 
Ballington  in  her  frantic  efforts  to  make  the  meal  pass 
pleasantly  put  the  finishing  touches  to  the  discomfort  of  the 
other  two. 

Ferdinand,  contrary  to  his  habit,  put  on  his  hat  and  went 
out  directly  after  dinner.  He  wished  now  that  he  voluntarily 
had  offered  to  do  for  Agnes  what  she  had  demanded,  but 
he  revolted  at  being  forced  to  change  his  methods. 

Agnes  told  her  aunt  with  humiliation  and  disappointment 
the  result  of  her  effort  to  obtain  an  allowance,  part  of  which 
was  to  have  been  given  to  her.  Miss  Margaret's  face  fell  at 
the  news,  and  she  went  off  crying. 

Agnes  put  her  baby  to  bed,  then  spent  the  evening  in  the 
library  trying  to  read,  but  tormented  with  apprehension  as 
she  saw  approaching  near  her  the  necessity  which  she  had 
hoped  against  hope  might  be  diverted.  She  went  upstairs 
before  her  husband  returned,  and  lay  long  awake  thinking  of 
her  mother's  needs  for  the  coming  winter,  of  the  inevitable 
sickness  and  pain  in  store  for  Aunt  Mattie,  of  Helen  expect 
ing  her  sixth  child — and  of  Ferdinand,  accumulating  capital 
and  fifty  thousand  a  year. 

When  Ferdinand  returned  he  came  into  her  room.  "Are 
you  asleep,  Agnes  ?  "  he  asked  softly. 

"  I  am  awake,  Ferdinand." 

"I  have  considered  your  request  and  decision.  I  cannot 
disarrange  my  entire  system  of  management  to  accommodate 


296  THE     BALLINGTONS 

your  whim.  At  the  same  time  I  will  not  refuse  you  money 
to  a  reasonable  amount  for  any  purpose  which  upon  careful 
consideration  seems  to  you  sufficient  ground  for  spending  it. 
I  say  you  may  do  this  whether  it  meets  with  my  approval 
or  not.  But  you  must  confer  with  me  first." 

There  was  a  short  unbroken  silence. 

Then  Agnes  replied.  "Ferdinand,  your  condition  is  a 
denial  of  my  request.  I  will  not  accept  it.  I  am  sorry  to 
offend  you,  but  I  shall  be  more  independent  if  I  earn  my 
own  money." 

"  You  persist  in  your  determination  then  ?  " 

"I  do." 

"  Then  I  have  nothing  more  to  say.  I  might,  of  course, 
request  Professor  Dimmock  and  the  trustees  of  the  church 
to  disregard  your  caprice,  but  I  have  more  consideration  for 
your  feelings  than  you  have  for  mine.  You  are,  therefore, 
at  liberty  to  pursue  your  own  course  of  action.  But " — • 
he  paused,  then  continued  as  though  he  were  reciting  a  for 
mula — "  I  wish  to  impress  it  upon  you  that  you  do  this  in 
distinct  opposition  to  my  wishes,  with  the  knowledge  that  you 
diminish  my  affection  and  respect  for  you,  that  you  take 
upon  yourself  the  responsibility  of  any  harm  which  may 
befall  the  children  when  you  leave  them.  That  is  all.  Good 
night." 

He  waited  a  moment  for  her  to  speak,  but  she  said  nothing. 
Then  he  left  the  room  and  closed  the  door  between  their 
apartments. 

Agnes  when  alone  once  more  questioned  herself  closely  as 
to  what  she  had  determined  to  do.  "  Why  should  I  hesitate 
to  take  this  step?  My  mother  would  not  hesitate  if  she  knew 
her  motive  was  justifiable.  It  doesn't  worry  her  what  other 
people  think.  But  what  if  something  should  happen  to  the 
children?  Something  might  just  as  naturally  happen  while 
I  was  out  driving  with  Ferdinand.  He  doesn't  go  to  church 
himself,  and  it  is  no  more  than  fair  that  the  father  should 
bear  their  responsibility  for  one  day  in  seven.  After  all, 
will  he  respect  me  less  for  taking  a  self-respecting  stand  in 


THE    BALLINGTONS  297 

our  mutual  relations?  I  am  inclined  to  think  he  will  respect 
me  more." 

She  did  not  sleep  that  night,  but,  hour  after  hour,  watched 
the  heavy  vibrations  of  the  dark,  watched  the  dawn  creep 
under  the  curtains  and  slide  nearer  and  nearer  her  bed, 
touching  into  grim  prominence  as  it  came  the  different  ob 
jects  in  its  path — her  desk,  her  table,  and  the  other  reminders 
of  her  daily  work.  It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had  been 
of  those  who  watch  for  the  morning,  but  once  she  never  would 
have  believed  that  a  night  in  which  she  gave  up  once  for  all 
long  dreams  of  youth  could  have  contained  for  her  also  so 
much  of  courage  and  energy  and  hope.  For  that  night, 
whatever  its  agony  and  its  renunciation,  put  an  end  forever 
to  the  melancholia  which  had  threatened  in  the  last  year  to 
engulf  her.  As  she  dressed  for  breakfast  she  felt  a  sense 
of  relief.  She  no  longer  had  anything  to  hide,  and  she  had 
dared  to  act  for  herself.  As  she  went  downstairs  she  told 
herself  that  the  fresh  start  was  made,  and  that  it  was  good. 

The  deeper  question  to  which  this  move  of  her  was  soon 
to  lead  did  not  confront  her  yet.  Other  wives  had  fulfilled  a 
double  duty.  Unsympathetic  as  Ferdinand  was,  she  never 
theless  believed  that  with  wisdom  she  could  be  both  wife  and 
wage-earner. 


CHAPTER  VI 

¥  N  July,  Beatrice  Sidney  was  summoned  by  telegram  to  New 

York.  She  arrived  barely  in  time  to  see  her  father  alive. 
The  old  General  had  gone  down  to  the  seashore,  as  he  ex 
pressed  it,  to  "  set  'em  up  with  an  old  friend."  It  was  a  hot 
day  and  the  enthusiasm  of  the  cocktails  lifted  the  burden 
of  years,  so  that  he  proposed  going  into  the  surf.  The  two 
joyful  old  blades  went  down  together  into  the  sea.  It  was 
soon  noticed  by  the  other  bathers  that  General  Mott  was 
behaving  strangely,  and  he  presently  was  forced  out  of  the 
water  by  the  bathing  guard,  sank  upon  the  sand  insensible, 
was  carried  back  to  the  city  and  never  regained  consciousness. 

Beatrice's  mourning  for  her  father  was  vehement  and  sin 
cere.  For  weeks  she  was  subdued  beyond  her  wont.  Then 
her  old  restlessness  began  to  revive.  One  day  in  November 
she  informed  Fred  that  she  was  going  over  to  Winston  to 
have  Thanksgiving  dinner  with  Agnes.  "  You  can  have 
Aunt  Kate  and  Aunt  Mattie  and  Quinn  here  with  you,"  she 
said  genially  when  leaving.  "  I've  ordered  all  kinds  of  things, 
and  Aunt  Kate  can  see  to  them.  There  are  some  Thanks 
giving  presents  from  me  in  the  escritoire.  Hand  them  around 
during  dessert."  She  gave  Fred  a  couple  of  French  kisses 
and  hurried  away  from  his  expostulations. 

Thanksgiving  eve  she  walked  in  upon  Agnes  and  Ferdi 
nand  as  they  were  eating  dinner,  drew  up  a  chair  beside  Aunt 
Margaret  at  the  table,  spoke  to  the  waitress,  who  had  once 
worked  for  her  in  Kent,  telling  her  to  bring  back  a  bit  of  fish 
only,  that  she  didn't  care  for  the  soup,  and  then  fell  to  talking 
heartily  of  Mrs.  Sidney  and  Fred  and  Dr.  Quinn  and  other 
Kent  people  Agnes  knew. 

"  To-morrow,  Aunt  Margaret,"  she  said,  wheeling  around 
to  Miss  Ballington  and  pinching  her  knee  under  the  table, 
"  you  and  I  are  going  to  have  a  good  time.  We'll  go  to  the 

298 


THE    BALLINGTONS  299 

— foot-ball  game !  "  she  finished,  her  eyes  twinkling  across 
the  table  at  Ferdinand.  Tom  was  the  only  member  of  the 
Ballington  family  who  approved  of  foot-ball,  Ferdinand  con 
sidering  it  a  game  for  rowdies. 

Beatrice  stayed  with  Miss  Margaret  most  of  the  evening, 
offering  cordially  to  occupy  her  room  with  her  at  night; 
which  plan  the  little  lady  accepted,  pleased  that  Beatrice 
enjoyed  talking  with  her. 

Before  they  went  to  sleep  that  night  Beatrice  had  learned 
all  that  Miss  Margaret  had  to  tell  of  Miriam  Cass  and  of 
Tom's  devotion  to  her.  "  I  don't  think  they  can  be  exactly 
engaged,  dear,"  Miss  Margaret  confided,  "  but  Tom  is  cer 
tainly  in  love  with  her — deeply." 

Miss  Margaret  no  sooner  had  made  the  announcement  than 
Beatrice  started  humming  with  great  spirit  a  tarantelle, 
snapping  her  fingers  in  the  air  for  an  accompaniment  of 
castanets. 

"  Do  put  your  arms  in,"  said  Miss  Margaret  nervously. 
"  You'll  catch  cold  in  those  lace  sleeves.  One  of  them  is  torn, 
too.  You  aren't  snapping  your  fingers  at  Tom's  being  in 
love,  are  you  ?  "  she  continued  confusedly. 

"  '  E  non  che  sono  poco  vezioso ! '  "  sang  Beatrice  with  aban 
don.  "  Not  a  whit,  not  a  whit,  Aunt  Margaret.  Why,  who 
knows  better  than  I  do  how  Tom  falls  in  love?  "  A  moment 
later  she  put  her  soft,  dark  hand  over  Miss  Margaret's  eyes. 
"  You  go  to  sleep,  pet,"  she  continued  authoritatively. 

Beatrice  herself  did  not  sleep,  however.  She  drew  her  lace- 
covered  arms  in  close  and  lay  still  and  straight,  as  she  gen 
erally  did  in  those  private  sessions  with  herself  wherein  she 
reviewed  unpleasing  situations. 

"  Two  things  to  do,"  she  thought  darkly,  a  swarm  of  recol 
lections  and  anticipations  rioting  in  her  brain.  "  First,  treat 
Ferdinand  so  he  won't  object  to  my  coming  here  when  I  like, 
and  it  will  be  the  hardest  thing  I  ever  did,  too.  Second,  look 
after  Mr.  Tom.  He  has  been  neglecting  me  for  a  long  time. 
If  he  won't  come  to  the  lake  house,  I'll  come  here.  Miriam 
Cass  is  too  old  for  him." 


300 

When  she  had  organized  her  plans,  she  shut  her  eyes, 
mumbled  over  a  baby  prayer  she  never  had  neglected  since 
her  mother  died,  and  then  went  resolutely  to  sleep. 

In  the  morning  she  was  up  and  dressed  before  even  Miss 
Margaret,  whose  early  rising  was  a  family  nuisance,  and 
Agnes  was  awakened  by  the  sound  of  the  two  playing  and 
singing  old  ballads  in  the  green  room  downstairs.  Miss  Mar 
garet's  ghost  of  a  voice  was  drowned  by  Beatrice's  strong 
alto,  save  now  and  then  on  the  high  notes,  where  the  thin  voice 
came  out  with  piercing  shrillness  in  its  effort  to  keep  the 
key,  while  Beatrice  frankly  fell  off  a  quarter  of  a  tone. 

After  breakfast  Beatrice  went  round  with  Aunt  Margaret 
inspecting  the  various  new  things  in  the  house.  Then  she 
announced  that  she  would  go  out  marketing  with  her,  saying 
that  she  always  learned  so  much  from  seeing  Aunt  Margaret 
buy. 

Miss  Margaret  was  so  pleased  with  this  compliment,  whose 
irony  was  lost  on  her,  that  she  straightway  ordered  the  car 
riage  without  remembering  that  the  stores  were  all  closed 
on  Thanksgiving  Day. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Beatrice  dauntlessly;  "I'd  just  as 
soon  hear  you  talk  as  see  you  market.  We'll  ride,  any 
way." 

"  It's  so  sweet  in  you  to  want  to  go  with  me,"  said  Miss 
Margaret  all  in  a  flutter.  "  I'm  afraid  it's  selfish  in  me. 
You'd  have  a  much  nicer  time  with  Agnes." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Beatrice  in  a  half -whisper,  "  I  feel  as  if 
I  were  with  my  grandmother  when  I'm  with  Agnes,  while  you 
are  just  my  age." 

Miss  Margaret  was  in  imminent  danger  of  losing  her  head 
over  this  continuous  adulation,  but  she  conscientiously  strove 
against  it. 

"  Poor  Agnes  isn't  old,  dear.  She  isn't  very  fresh  always. 
Ferdinand  was  saying  just  this  morning  that  she  didn't  look 
very  fresh.  He  thinks  these  church  rehearsals  are  too  much 
for  her.  She's  been  up  nights  a  good  deal  with  Stephen,  too, 
lately." 


THE    BALLINGTONS  301 

"  I  guess  Ferdinand  must  be  losing  his  eye-sight,"  said 
Beatrice  satirically.  "  Agnes  looks  better  than  she  has  any 
time  the  last  three  years.  Getting  used  to  being  married,  I 
guess.  Fred  says  all  Winston  is  going  to  church  again  just 
to  look  at  her  sing.  Here,  let  me  hold  that  funny  little  shawl 
for  you ! " 

"  Dear  me ! "  said  Miss  Margaret,  dropping  into  a  chair, 
"  I've  got  it  folded  wrong  again,  Beatrice.  This  is  the  third 
time.  The  sides  without  the  fringe  on  are  always  the  ones 
that  get  on  top." 

"  Rip  off  the  fringe  then  and  sew  it  on  the  other  two  sides," 
volunteered  Mrs.  Fred  Sidney,  whisking  the  shawl  out  of 
Miss  Margaret's  lap  and  shaking  it  open  with  a  resounding 
snap.  "  I'll  help  you.  We'll  begin  at  the  two  ends  and  sew 
toward  the  middle.  There,  I've  got  it  all  right  now.  Come 
along  downstairs." 

As  they  opened  the  door  into  the  library  they  found  Agnes 
reading  aloud  to  her  husband.  Beatrice  went  up  behind  her 
and  looked  over  her  shoulder.  "  Patent  records !  "  she  ex 
claimed.  "  Well,  I  declare !  Ferdinand,  you  picked  out  your 
wife  just  as  shrewdly  as  you  do  most  of  your  business." 

Ferdinand  rose  irritably  and  went  to  the  window.  Then 
he  said  something  which  he  previously  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  say  as  soon  as  he  had  heard  that  Miss  Margaret  and 
Beatrice  had  ordered  the  horse.  He  addressed  Miss  Mar 
garet,  but  there  was  a  significant  warning  for  Beatrice  in  his 
tone.  "  If  you  are  considering  driving  to  Aunt  Sarah's, 
Aunt  Margaret,  I  must  request  that  you  don't  stop  at 
the  shops  and  disturb  Tom.  He  is  doing  extra  work  to-day 
and  will  be  held  closely  to  his  time." 

Miss  Ballington  looked  over  at  him  in  surprise,  but  Bea 
trice's  eyes  instantly  grew  hard  and  bright.  "  Oh,  ho !  "  she 
cried.  Then  she  made  a  wide  circle  around  Miss  Margaret 
in  an  elaborate  minuet  step,  and,  still  circling,  approached 
nearer  and  nearer  to  Ferdinand,  as  though  she  were  weaving 
some  incantation. 

Ferdinand  did  not  move  from  the  window  where  he  unwill- 


302  THE    BALLINGTONS 

ingly  watched  her  implacable  approach.  He  always  had 
hated  those  strong  and  flexible  curves,  and  now  she  was  com 
ing  with  a  mingled  leisure  and  abandon  which  repelled  him 
doubly  because  it  showed  off  her  figure  to  such  undeniable 
advantage. 

When  she  reached  him  she  made  an  eighteenth  century 
courtesy.  "  So  Tom's  followed  Fred's  example  and  turned 
clerk !  Well,  one's  enough  for  me.  We'll  leave  him  alone !  " 

She  watched  him  a  moment  with  a  look  of  great  satisfac 
tion  at  her  successful  acquiescence,  then  turned  back  to  the 
other  two.  "  Come  on,  Aunt  Margaret.  Sam's  waiting," 
she  said  in  high  good-humor. 

As  she  reached  the  door  she  paused  and  turned  back  to 
Ferdinand,  who  had  not  taken  his  eyes  from  her.  Lifting 
her  hand  to  her  right  temple,  she  gave  a  salute.  Then  she 
whirled  around  and  vanished  after  Aunt  Margaret. 

"  How  much  longer  is  your  cousin  expecting  to  stay 
here  ?  "  asked  Ferdinand  of  his  wife  when  the  outside  door 
had  closed. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Agnes,  picking  up  her  book  again. 

"  She  has  pretended  to  come  to  see  Aunt  Margaret  and 
you,"  said  Ferdinand  crossly,  "  but  of  course  you  know  she 
comes  to  see  Tom.  I  don't  know  that  you  can  expect  any 
thing  better  of  old  Mott's  daughter,  though,"  Ferdinand 
continued  contemptuously.  "  That  man's  funeral  was  a  dis 
grace  to  the  community.  A  regiment  of  women  he  had  mar 
ried  off  to  his  tenants  were  there,  weeping  and  wailing  a  good 
deal  more  than  they  would  have  done  for  their  husbands." 

Agnes  found  the  place  where  she  had  left  off  reading. 
"  Shall  I  begin  at  section  four?  "  she  asked,  looking  up  in 
quiringly.  "  Or  wait — the  second  paragraph  of  section 
four." 

"  Before  we  begin  again  there  is  another  matter  I  want  to 
speak  to  you  about,"  he  said.  "  Mr.  Bucher  was  in  town  yes 
terday.  It  seems  he  lent  your  mother  four  thousand  dollars 
last  winter  and  took  a  deed  of  her  home.  Were  you  aware  of 
this?" 


THE    BALLINGTONS  303 

"  Yes,"  said  Agnes,  closing  the  book  and  looking  at  him. 
"  The  simpler  way  to  state  the  fact  is  to  say  she  sold  him  the 
house  for  four  thousand  dollars." 

Another  care  she  had  been  bearing  in  secret  for  almost  a 
year  was  out  at  last. 

"  Hardly,"  returned  Ferdinand,  smiling  slightly.  "  It  was 
not  an  unconditional  sale.  Bucher  promised  not  to  dispose 
of  the  place  under  two  years,  when  either  she  or  Dr.  Quinn 
expect  to  buy  it  back — a  woman's  piece  of  business." 

"  I  can  tell  you  the  facts,"  said  Agnes,  "  if  you  care  to 
know  them  ?  " 

"  Yes.  I  should  have  been  glad  to  know  them  before  this," 
replied  Ferdinand. 

"  Pleasant  has  been  running  behind  more  than  anyone 
knew.  My  mother  knew  nothing  about  it  till  she  went  out 
there  when  Helen  was  sick  last  winter.  Then  she  found  out 
that  he  had  been  borrowing  money  and  that  my  father's 
friend,  Dr.  Clisdale,  had  signed  notes  with  him.  Mother 
insisted  that  everything  be  settled  up  then  and  there.  They 
were  pushing  Dr.  Clisdale  hard." 

"  That  was  his  own  lookout,"  commented  Ferdinand. 

"  You  know  my  mother  never  would  let  him  suffer  for 
Pleasant's  sake.  The  result  was  that  she  sold  her  own  home 
and  paid  the  notes." 

"  How  about  Mabie's  farm?  "  asked  Ferdinand. 

"  The  mortgage  was  foreclosed." 

"  I  thought  you  had  paid  up  the  interest  for  two  years  out 
of  my  money." 

Agnes  flushed  scarlet.  "  He  paid  the  interest  for  only 
one  year  out  of  what  I  sent  and  asked  the  man  to  wait  for  the 
other  year's  interest.  He  went  into  some  fancy  poultry-rais 
ing  with  the  rest  of  the  money." 

"  You  acknowledge  then  that  I  was  right  about  sending 
money  to  Mr.  Mabie  ?  " 

Ferdinand  could  not  conceal  his  triumph  at  this  vindication 
of  his  sagacity. 

"  Yes." 


304  THE     BALLINGTONS 

"How  does  your  mother  expect  to  buy  back  her  prop 
erty  ?  "  he  inquired  after  a  moment,  and  he  could  not  forbear 
adding  humorously :  "  Out  of  your  church-money  ?  Or  will 
she  live  out  at  the  farm  she  has  made  such  a  point  of 
keeping  ?" 

"  Dr.  Quinn  expects  to  buy  the  place,"  returned  Agnes, 
not  noticing  the  latter  part  of  his  remark.  "  Mother  in 
tended  that  he  should  have  it.  He  is  going  to  let  her  have 
her  home  there  always,  and  he  is  going  to  give  her  an  inter 
est  in  his  invention  besides." 

"  There's  no  telling  whether  his  invention  will  ever  amount 
to  anything,"  said  Ferdinand  dryly.  "  It  will  be  a  long  pro 
cess  if  it  does.  He  can't  afford  to  push  it.  He  made  his  mis 
take  when  he  declined  my  offer." 

Agnes  made  no  reply. 

Ferdinand  opened  a  drawer  in  his  desk  and  took  out  a 
document.  "  What  are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mabie  going  to  do  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  They  are  going  to  run  the  farm  on  shares  for  one  more 
year.  Pleasant  has  promised  mother  that  if  he  doesn't  suc 
ceed  then  he  will  come  East." 

Ferdinand  opened  the  document  and  handed  it  to  Agnes. 
"  I  have  relieved  Bucher  of  the  old  place,"  he  said. 

Agnes  half  rose.  "  Mr.  Bucher  sold  you  our  house !  "  she 
cried  involuntarily.  "  He  has  sold  it  after  he  promised " 

"  Yes.  He  is  hard  up,  and  he  seemed  gratified  when  I 
offered  to  take  it  off  his  hands.  I'm  inclined  to  think  he  may 
go  down  as  Balch  did.  The  condition  your  mother  imposed 
burdened  him,  but  I  told  him  that  of  course  I  should  regard 
that  condition  also." 

Agnes  hesitated.  She  felt  that  she  and  all  her  family  were 
caught  in  a  net.  Indignation  at  Mr.  Bucher  and  at  her  hus 
band  prevented  sane  thought  or  speech  for  some  moments. 
But  at  last  she  pulled  herself  together. 

"  Ferdinand,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  I  cannot  understand 
how  Mr.  Bucher  came  to  do  this  unless  you  led  him  to  suppose 
that  he  was  doing  my  mother  a  kindness.  He  must  have 


THE     BALLINGTONS  305 

thought  that  you  would  be  generous  with  her.  Now  I  want 
you  to  be  generous  with  her.  Give  my  mother  her  home." 
She  had  risen  and  approached  him  as  she  spoke. 

"  It  is  useless  to  give  to  your  mother,"  said  Ferdinand 
judiciously.  "  She  always  will  scrimp  herself  for  the  Mabies. 
It  would  be  wiser  to  let  her  scrimp  in  order  to  get  back  the 
house.  Besides,  who  knows  what  she  can  get  for  it  from 
Quinn?" 

"  But,  Ferdinand,  you  don't  realize  how  severe  mother's 
scrimping  is,"  insisted  Agnes.  "  She  works  too  hard  for  a 
woman  of  her  age.  She  will  break  down." 

"  Hasn't  that  aunt  of  yours  any  blood-relations  ?  "  asked 
Ferdinand  speculatively  after  a  moment  of  reflection. 

"  Yes,  but  none  who  can  or  will  help  her." 

"  They  won't,  of  course,  so  long  as  your  mother  does. 
That  woman  will  outlive  your  mother.  They  are  a  long- 
lived  pair,  however,"  he  finished.  "  If  your  aunt's  family 
won't  help  her,  the  State  will  provide  for  her." 

"  Ferdinand !  "  exclaimed  Agnes,  outraged  by  his  words. 

"  Or  she  might  go  to  the  hospital,"  continued  Ferdinand, 
feeling  that  perhaps  he  should  have  made  more  allowance  for 
the  fact  that  he  was  speaking  to  a  woman.  "  Your  father 
worked  to  get  a  hospital  in  Kent  for  just  such  cases.  Your 
family  should  have  the  benefit  of  it." 

"  Don't  say  another  word,  Ferdinand !  My  mother  never 
will  desert  Aunt  Mattie,  so  long  as  she  has  a  crust  for 
herself." 

Ferdinand  sat  down,  opened  the  record  book,  and  handed 
it  to  her,  as  he  said  with  an  air  of  finality,  "  When  the  last 
crust  is  gone,  you  will  find  me  ready  to  talk  with  you  again. 
You  were  at  the  words,  '  patented  by  T.  Robertson.' ' 

Agnes  also  reseated  herself  and  took  the  volume.  Her 
voice  trembled  as  she  began  to  read,  but  before  long  she  had 
it  under  control. 

The  reading  continued  for  some  two  hours,  until  the  others 
returned. 

"  Here  we  are ! "  cried  Beatrice,  pushing  her  companion 


306  THE    BALLINGTONS 

into  the  library.  "Put  up  your  books,  good  people. 
Thanksgiving !  " 

"  We  had  such  a  nice  time,"  said  Miss  Margaret  brightly, 
**  and,  do  you  know,  whom  should  we  meet  but " 

"  Old  Miss  Sewell ! "  interposed  Beatrice,  suddenly  throw 
ing  all  her  wraps  in  a  heap  on  the  lounge.  She  went  on 
volubly  recounting  all  that  Miss  Sewell  had  said,  while  Miss 
Margaret  collected  the  heap  of  garments  from  the  sofa  and 
carried  them  out  into  the  hall. 

As  «oon  as  she  was  outside  the  door  Beatrice  stopped.  "  I 
guess  you  two  don't  want  to  be  interrupted,"  she  said,  with 
a  breath  of  relief  at  the  narrow  escape  from  having  it  dis 
closed  that  they  had  met  Tom  on  the  street  and  that  he  had 
been  driving  with  them.  "  I'm  going  up  with  the  children  till 
dinner."  Then  she  followed  Miss  Margaret  into  the  hall. 

Ferdinand  picked  up  a  marked  newspaper  and  handed  it 
to  Agnes.  He  had  been  admiring  her  persistence  and  self- 
control  in  reading  to  him  during  her  recent  agitation,  and  it 
was  with  a  conciliatory  manner  that  he  said,  "  Senator  Bal- 
four's  speech  of  yesterday  is  the  finest  thing  of  the  year." 
He  knew  that  this  would  please  her,  for  Senator  Balf our  had 
been  her  father's  roommate  at  college,  and  both  Mrs.  Sidney 
and  Agnes  had  followed  the  statesman's  career  with  interest 
and  pride. 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Agnes  simply,  taking  the  paper. 

"  When  he  comes  up  to  this  part  of  the  country  we  will 
make  a  point  of  meeting  him,"  continued  Ferdinand. 

He  gathered  up  the  papers  as  he  spoke,  with  the  comfort 
able  feeling  of  having  accomplished  a  good  deal  during  the 
morning.  Even  Beatrice  seemed  tolerable.  Agnes  had  been 
as  reasonable  as  she  could  be  about  the  sale  of  the  house,  had 
acknowledged  her  folly  in  sending  money  to  Pleasant,  and, 
take  it  all  together,  the  official  thanksgiving  which  was  an 
nually  forced  upon  him  was  less  disagreeable  than  usual. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"DEATRICE  made  flying  trips  to  Winston  all  through  the 
winter,  but  her  coming  did  not  seriously  affect  the  regu 
larity  of  life  of  any  of  the  Ballingtons  except  Miss  Mar 
garet.  Agnes  wondered  at  the  conciliatory  attitude  Beatrice 
maintained  toward  Ferdinand.  On  his  part  he  paid  little 
attention  to  her  when  she  came.  He  was  absorbed  in  his  in 
vention,  which  he  was  just  patenting  in  America,  and  which 
he  expected  to  introduce  on  the  Continent  during  the  next 
summer. 

Agnes  was  even  more  surprised  and  delighted  at  Tom's 
poise  under  his  old  comrade's  attentions,  at  his  faithfulness 
in  the  routine  of  business  and  his  wistfulness  and  earnestness 
whenever  they  talked  together  of  Miriam.  Her  correspond 
ence  with  Miriam  took  on  pleading  for  Tom.  She  begged 
her  friend  to  reward  the  efforts  which  had  been  inspired 
by  her. 

It  seemed  hard  to  Agnes  when  Miriam  answered  unswerv 
ingly,  "I  am  happy  at  what  you  write  me  of  your  cousin's 
life,  but  his  reward  will  be  what  he  achieves  in  himself.  Respect 
for  one's  own  soul,  not  anything  another  can  give,  is  the  only 
starting  point  for  a  successful  life.  I  hope  your  fears  for 
Tom  are  groundless,  but  I  have  known  those  who  develop  only 
through  mistakes,  perhaps  sin.  If  his  conscience  does  not 
keep  him  from  these,  I  could  not  really  help  him  spiritually, 
even  though  I  might  direct  his  course  of  action.  You  use 
your  husband's  parents  as  a  case  in  point.  Doubtless  Estelle 
Landseer  did,  as  you  say,  preserve  the  first  Tom  Ballington 
from  fatal  indulgence.  Did  this  preservation  make  him  the 
stronger  and  better  man?  There  are  too  many  protected 
children  in  the  world.  We  need  self-reliant  men  and  women." 

The  latter  part  of  February  Tom  planned  a  business  trip 
to  New  York.  „  Both  Donald  and  Ferdinand  guessed  the 

307 


308  THE    BALLINGTONS 

reason  for  it  and  made  characteristic  comments  to  Agnes. 
Donald's  was  solicitous.  "  Do  you  think  it  can  do  any  good 
for  him  to  go  on  thinking  about  Miriam?  She  never  will 
marry  him.  Would  it  not  be  better  for  him  to  forget  her?  " 
Ferdinand's  remark  was  more  sententious.  "  Miss  Cass* 
friendships  with  younger  men,  I  suppose,  vary  the  monotony 
of  art." 

The  night  Tom  left  he  went  to  see  Agnes  and  confided  to 
her  his  intention  to  call  upon  Miriam.  "  You  are  the  only 
one  who  knows  it,"  he  said,  pleased  with  his  own  secretive- 
ness. 

Agnes  responded  cordially,  but  she  had  been  thinking  over 
Miriam's  letter,  and  the  fear  lest  Tom  might  be  disappointed 
sobered  her  words.  "You  must  remember  that  Miriam  is 
older  than  we  are,  Tom.  She  is  less  egoistic,  more  self- 
sufficient.  I  know  better  than  anyone  else  what  her  friendship 
means.  The  best  part  of  it  is  something  you  don't  guess." 

Tom  felt  a  note  of  warning  in  her  voice.  "  What  is  that?  " 
he  asked. 

He  was  struck  with  the  unconscious  power  of  her  face  and 
manner  as  she  re j  oined,  "  It  is  a  confirmation  of  one's  own 
soul.  Her  friendship  is  straight  and  sound  and  so  clear 
sighted  in  its  fullness  of  feeling  that  when  she  gives  it,  it 
comes  as  a  crown  of  glory.  She  never  gave  it  to  anyone  who 
had  not  first  deserved  it  except  me.  She  gave  it  to  me  be 
cause  she  knew  I  never  would  stop  trying  to  be  worthy  of  it. 
She  will  be  doubly  sure  before  she  ever  gives  it  to  a  man." 

They  spent  a  quiet  evening  together,  singing  and  talking. 
Tom  unconsciously  was  coached  by  Agnes  in  topics  which 
she  knew  to  be  of  interest  to  Miriam,  and  he  finally  started 
off  in  an  optimistic  state  of  mind. 

He  reached  New  York  in  the  morning,  but  he  held  himself 
to  the  firm's  business  during  the  day. 

When  evening  came  he  stopped  at  a  florist's  on  the  way 
uptown  and  bought  a  bunch  of  violets.  Then,  with  a  high- 
beating  heart,  but  with  a  sense  of  self-respect  in  the  knowl 
edge  of  what  his  life  had  been  since  their  parting,  he  sought 


THE     BALLINGTONS  309 

the  apartment  on  Forty-third  Street,  where,  much  to  Mrs. 
Silas5  consternation,  Miriam  was  living  with  a  musical  friend 
a  little  younger  than  herself. 

Tom  found  his  way  to  her  door.  He  felt  a  palpitation  of 
the  heart  as  he  saw  the  double  card  inscribed, 

MIRIAM  CASS. 
ETELKA  RAVACZY. 

He  listened  before  he  pressed  the  bell.  It  was  quite  still. 
Immediately  after  he  had  rung,  however,  a  peal  of  laughter 
came  from  the  rooms  inside,  striking  him  almost  as  an  answer 
to  his  ring.  In  a  panic  of  embarrassment  he  thrust  the  vio 
lets  into  his  pocket,  crushing  them  as  he  did  so.  Their  odor 
penetrated  the  air  as  he  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps  within. 
Another  moment  and  he  was  facing  a  tall  girl  with  coarse 
black  hair,  oblique  eyes,  and  straight  brows.  In  spite  of 
her  simple  manner  Tom  felt  abashed  by  a  bizarre  power  in 
her.  She  looked  at  him  with  courteous  inquiry. 

"Is  Miss  Cass  at  home?"  he  asked. 

"  She  is.    Will  you  step  inside  ?  " 

The  girl  stepped  back,  drew  aside  a  curtain  behind  her,  dis 
closing  a  group  of  men  and  women  within,  and  called  lightly, 
"  Miriam ! " 

Tom  stood  on  the  threshold  trying  to  compose  himself. 
At  first  he  did  not  see  Miriam.  He  took  in  the  general  ap 
pearance  of  a  large  room.  The  walls  were  rich  but  plain  in 
tone.  A  shelf  ran  all  the  way  around  the  upper  part,  on 
which  a  row  of  steins  and  curious  and  barbaric  jugs  and 
vases  were  thickly  ranged.  A  grand  piano  stood  in  one 
corner,  with  iron  lamps  each  side  the  keyboard.  Against  an 
old  tapestry  curtain  a  number  of  daring  clay  models  were 
hung.  A  marble  bust  of  Stevenson  done  from  the  life  stood 
in  front  of  it.  Curios  from  all  over  the  world,  rich  old 
cloisonne  from  Japan,  Benares  brass  from  India,  mosaics 
from  Italy,  Chinese  ivories,  temple-gongs  from  Thibet,  a 
teak-wood  cabinet  filled  with  rare  Chinese  pottery,  covered 
the  walls.  In  one  corner  there  was  hung,  wreathed  about  with 


310          THE    BALLINGTONS 

great  sprays  of  coral,  a  trophy  of  walrus  tusks,  an  enor 
mous  swordfish's  weapon,  harpoons,  Esquimau  and  Malay 
fish  spears,  and  many  curious  implements  of  nameless  use 
collected  by  Captain  Cass  on  all  the  shores  washed  by  the 
oceans. 

Opposite  was  sitting  a  man  whose  face  was  well 
known  to  the  public  as  that  of  a  rising  politician.  In  the 
center  of  the  room,  seated  around  a  card  table,  were  four 
persons.  Two  tall  candles  diagonally  opposite  each  other 
across  the  table,  their  flames  reflected  in  the  polished  mahog 
any,  lighted  up  the  group.  Tom's  gaze  fell  upon  Miriam, 
who  was  seated  with  her  back  toward  him,  her  mass  of  black- 
bronze  hair  vivid  in  the  candle  light.  Next  to  her  a  square, 
stocky  figure,  nerved  with  the  "  rigor  of  the  game,"  stooped 
over  the  table.  A  hale,  despotic  old  face,  featured  like 
Miriam's  and  crowned  with  thick,  grizzled,  black-bronze  hair, 
proclaimed  him  Miriam's  father,  the  much-wanjdering  Ulysses 
of  the  sea,  Captain  Cass. 

As  Miriam  heard  her  name  she  laid  down  her  cards,  rose 
as  she  made  a  laughing  remark  to  her  father,  which  called 
forth  a  vehement  protestation  from  that  gentleman,  and, 
without  waiting  for  him  to  finish,  turned  and  came  toward 
Tom.  The  captain  raised  his  voice  and  pursued  her  with 
words  which  were  intended  to  bring  her  to  reason.  Miriam's 
eyes  were  full  of  merriment  as  they  fell  upon  Tom,  but  their 
expression  instantly  changed,  as  she  recognized  him,  to  one 
of  surprise  and  pleasure. 

"  Why,  Tom,"  she  exclaimed,  "  have  you  snowed  down  ? 
Come  in.  If  Providence  provides  another  we  can  have  a 
second  whist  table.  I'm  so  glad  you're  here  to  meet  my 
father." 

Tom  laid  aside  his  hat  and  coat  and  followed  her  into  the 
room  as  she  talked.  She  led  him  at  once  to  Captain  Cass. 

"  Father,  this  is  Mr.  Ballington,  from  Winston." 

"  How  do  you  do,  sir?  "  said  Captain  Cass  in  a  business 
like  way,  wheeling  around  in  his  chair  to  face  Tom.  He  did 
not  offer  to  get  up,  and,  as  he  shook  hands  with  the  newcomer, 


THE    BALLINGTONS  311 

Instinctively  turned  his  cards  face  down  on  the  table  before 
him,  as  a  safeguard  from  the  perfidious  eyes  of  his  daughter. 

"  She  says  I  might  as  well  play  with  my  cards  wrong  side 
out,"  he  continued  discontentedly,  explaining  to  Tom  the 
ground  of  his  recent  controversy. 

"  These  are  our  friends,  Professor  and  Mrs.  Whitney," 
interposed  Miriam,  nipping  off  her  father's  harangue  with 
experienced  promptitude.  Captain  Cass  gave  an  unwilling 
grin,  and  winked  at  Tom  as  much  as  to  say,  "  I'll  finish  it  in 
a  minute." 

Professor  Whitney  rose  to  shake  hands.  He  was  a  tall 
man  with  a  scholarly  head,  keen  eyes,  and  polished  manners. 
His  wife,  a  weary-looking  woman  who  was  slightly  deaf, 
responded  to  the  introduction  with  a  bow  only. 

Miriam  then  drew  forward  the  foreign  girl  who  had  been 
waiting  a  little  behind  her,  with  the  words,  "  Etelka,  Mr. 
Ballington.  Miss  Ravaczy  is  my  violinist-comrade." 

Then,  turning  to  the  politician,  Miriam  added,  "Mr. 
Strong." 

"  I  see  I  am  interrupting  your  game  of  cards,"  said  Tom. 
"  Go  right  on  with  it." 

"  I  am  relieved  at  the  interruption,  Mr.  Ballington,"  said 
Professor  Whitney,  still  standing.  "  I  am  just  beginning 
to  learn  whist.  I  either  have  a  hand  that  a  way-faring  man 
though  a  fool  couldn't  help  playing,  or  I  have  one  that  would 
make  the  wisest  man  on  earth  sit  down  on  the  ash-heap." 

Miriam  laughed  under  her  breath,  but  before  she  could 
speak  the  captain  broke  in. 

"  Sit  down !  Sit  down,  Whitney !  "  he  exclaimed,  fanning 
the  air  irritably  with  his  free  hand  in  the  direction  of  the 
Professor.  "  The  young  gentleman  wants  us  to  go  on. 
Strong  and — the  young  lady  over  there  aren't  playing."  The 
Captain  felt  his  inability  to  pronounce  Etelka's  name,  and 
with  a  motion  of  his  hand  he  waved  Tom  toward  the  settee. 
"  Your  play,  Miriam !  "  finished  her  father  briefly. 

"  Mr.  Ballington  is  from  out  of  town,  father,"  said  Miriam 
remaining  by  her  father's  chair.  "  You  will  excuse  me " 


312  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"  Sit  down !  The  game  is  almost  done,"  repeated  the 
Captain  peremptorily. 

"  Let  me  take  your  hand,  Miss  Cass,"  suggested  Mr. 
Strong,  coming  forward.  "  I  have  been  watching  the  game." 

The  Captain  leaned  back  in  disgust,  while  Miriam  gave 
Strong  her  cards  and  retired  with  Tom  and  Etelka  to  the 
seats  by  the  wall. 

"  How  is  Agnes  ?  "  she  asked  at  once. 

"  She's  very  well  and  sent  her  love  to  you,"  said  Tom,  the 
conventional  words  making  him  feel  formal  and  ill  at  ease. 

"  Is  Mr.  Ballington  the  husband  of  the  Mrs.  Ballington 
of  whom  I  hear  so  many  things?  "  asked  the  musician,  look 
ing  at  Tom  gravely. 

"  Not  a  married  man  yet !  "  answered  Tom,  more  and  more 
discomforted.  "  I'm  a  cousin  of  Ferdinand  Ballington.  I 
see  you  have  Agnes  here,"  he  added  brusquely,  nodding  at 
the  farther  wall  where  he  had  noticed  several  studies  of  his 
cousin's  head. 

"  Yes,  I  did  those  from  memory.  Do  you  think  they  are 
like  her?  "  Miriam's  eyes  followed  his  critically. 

"  Exactly,  when  she  looks  that  way.  It's  a  pity  she  doesn't 
look  that  way  oftener."  Tom  had  intended  to  give  a  compli 
ment,  but  Miriam's  sudden  smile  made  him  conscious  of  the 
fact  that  he  had  done  the  opposite. 

Without  attempting  to  mend  matters  he  changed  the  sub 
ject.  "You  have  a  lovely  room  here,"  he  began  diffidently. 
"  May  I  go  round  and  look  at  the  things  after  a  while?  That 
sea  corner  over  there,"  and  he  pointed  with  animation  in  the 
direction  of  the  coral,  "  has  an  Arabian-Night  spell  for  me. 
Coral  is  my  fetish." 

"  I  like  the  room,"  said  Miriam,  "  best  of  all  when  Etelka 
practices  here.  I  have  my  studio  in  beyond  there  and  I  can 
hear  her  when  I'm  at  my  work.  Perhaps  she  will  play  for 
us  to-night." 

"  I  will  play  if  you  wish  it,"  replied  that  young  lady 
seriously. 

"  Meantime,  look  around  if  you  like,"  Miriam  said  kindly, 


313 

turning  to  Tom.  "  You  may  go  in  the  studio,  too,  if  you 
care  to." 

Tom  rose  feeling  constrained  and  unhappy.  This  was 
the  world  he  had  hungered  for  in  his  teens,  the  world  he  had 
found  in  books  and  in  imagination  while  his  youth  slipped 
away  from  him  in  the  ugly  treadmill  he  was  born  to.  Now 
he  was  out  of  place  in  both  worlds.  As  he  walked  through 
the  room  with  Miriam  at  his  side  explaining  the  different 
objects,  his  undisciplined  admiration  of  the  beautiful  collec 
tions  was  struck  through  with  rage  and  bitterness  for  his  lost 
years.  Anger  at  his  mother,  Donald,  Ferdinand,  his  dead 
father,  contempt  for  his  own  weakness  in  letting  his  life 
be  controlled  by  others,  surged  rebelliously  within  him. 
What  good  had  these  months  of  hard  work  in  the  office  been 
to  him?  He  never  would  arrive  at  companionship  with 
Miriam  through  such  smothered  existence. 

They  were  interrupted  by  laughter  and  the  shoving  of 
chairs  back  from  the  card-table.  Captain  Cass'  look  of 
complacence  announced  that  the  game  had  gone  to  suit  him. 
"  You're  coming  up,  Whitney ! "  he  said,  drawing  back  his 
arms  to  stretch  his  back  and  shoulders. 

Then  he  swung  toward  Tom.  "  Glad  to  see  you,  Mr. 
Ballington.  Very  staunch  woman,  your  mother-in-law. 
Miriam  made  me  call  on  her  last  summer  when  I  went  through 
Kent." 

"  This  is  Tom  Ballington,  father,"  corrected  Miriam,  "  a 
cousin  of  Agnes'  husband." 

"  Poor  relation  of  his ! "  added  Tom,  looking  squarely  at 
the  old  gentleman.  He  was  infuriated  by  this  second  con 
founding  of  himself  with  his  detested  relative.  Miriam  must 
have  been  talking  a  good  deal  about  Ferdinand. 

"  You  live  on  the  old  stamping-ground  of  the  Iroquois 
Indians  ?  "  asked  Professor  Whitney  courteously.  "  A  most 
interesting  region.  I  am  working  up  a  paper  on  the  origin 
of  their  political  ideas,  and  I  went  over  the  ground  very  care 
fully  last  summer." 

"  Yes.    We  have  an  Iroquois  necropolis  in  our  back  yard," 


314  THE     BALLINGTONS 

answered  Tom,  feeling  easier.  "  Don  and  I  used  to  dig 
there." 

"  There  are  legends  to  be  heard,  no  doubt?  "  asked  the 
Professor,  raising  his  eyebrows  a  trifle. 

"  Oh,  yes,  there's  a  great  yarn,"  said  Tom,  brightening 
up.  "  There  was  a  chief  of  theirs  who " 

"  Whitney ! "  broke  in  the  yarn-satiated  old  seaman,  ad 
dressing  his  friend,  "  that  Dawson  was  a  fool.  I  told  him 
so  to  his  face,  after  the  lecture.  He  stood  up  before  his 
audience  and  got  off  that  old  gag  about  defying  the  law 
of  gravitation  when  he  raised  his  arm.  I  told  Miriam  that 
was  all  I  needed  to  know  of  him." 

"  Why  didn't  he  defy  the  law  of  gravitation  then  ?  "  ex 
claimed  Tom  bitterly.  "  He  overcame  it  by  his  muscle." 
He  did  not  forgive  Captain  Cass  for  quenching  his  attempt 
to  take  part  in  the  general  conversation. 

"  You'd  better  read  Huxley,  young  man,"  said  Miriam's 
father  good-humoredly.  "  Well,  Miriam,  I'll  go  out  on  that 
business  now.  Good-night,  Whitney.  Good " 

"Won't  you  stay  a  little  longer,  father?  "  asked  Miriam. 

"  — night,  ladies.  Good-day,  Mr.  Ballington."  And  with 
an  abrupt  bow  Captain  Cass  left  the  room. 

The  politician,  whose  easy  silence  Tom  had  resented, 
looked  leisurely  toward  him  now  and  inquired  if  he  were 
staying  long  in  New  York. 

"  No.  I  expect  to  leave  to-morrow.  I  am  here  on  busi 
ness,"  Tom  answered. 

He  looked  at  Miriam  as  he  spoke,  and  the  look  pierced  her 
sympathy.  She  put  a  warm  friendliness  into  the  smile  she 
gave  him  in  return,  which  started  Tom's  heart  throbbing. 
He  forgot  art  and  science.  After  all,  she  was  a  woman  as 
well  as  an  artist  and  a  scholar.  He  tried  to  think  of  some 
of  the  subjects  he  had  talked  over  with  Agnes,  and  said  at 
a  venture,  "  You  have  become  interested  in  Hungarian  litera 
ture,  Agnes  tells  me?  " 

"Indeed ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Strong,  turning  toward  Miriam. 
"  You  hadn't  metioned  that  to  me." 


THE    BALLINGTONS  315 

Professor  Whitney  let  his  fine  eyes  rest  upon  his  wife  as 
he  said,  "  In  my  old  age  I  am  affording  much  amusement  to 
my  family  by  learning  to  play  cards  and  to  read  novels.  I 
have  just  discovered  that  nothing  so  illustrates  racial  differ 
ences  as  the  novel." 

Racial  differences!  Tom  gave  an  inaudible  groan.  Had 
he  started  this?  Once  more  he  was  left  on  one  side  by  the 
current  of  conversation,  which  flowed  busily  on  in  a  compari 
son  of  the  Russian,  Hungarian  and  English  novel.  Whitney 
was  interested  in  the  philosophy  of  fiction,  Strong  in  the 
politics,  Miriam  in  the  genius  and  the  social  theories  of  the 
authors. 

Tom,  who  always  read  for  the  story,  felt  childish  and 
foolish  and  sank  into  a  despondent  silence. 

Miriam  seemed  to  realize  his  mood,  for  she  presently  broke 
off  and  went  to  the  piano.  "  Etelka  has  promised  to  play 
for  us,"  she  said,  smiling  at  her  friend. 

Tom's  hopes  revived.  Here,  at  last,  Fate  was  affording 
him  an  opportunity.  Nature  had  done  well  by  him  in  one 
respect ;  she  had  given  him  a  voice.  While  Etelka  was  tuning 
up  her  violin  he  cleared  his  throat  quietly,  preparatory  to 
his  Rubinstein  songs.  As  she  settled  the  instrument  under 
her  chin  and  questioned  it  with  her  bow  before  beginning, 
Tom  leaned  back  in  comfortable  anticipation  of  the  "  Cava- 
tina  "  by  Raff,  or  the  "  Legende  "  by  Wieniawski,  or  possibly 
Handel's  "  Largo." 

A  moment  later  an  ear-splitting  discord,  insisted  upon 
fortissimo  by  piano  and  violin  alike  for  several  bars,  galvan 
ized  him  into  an  erect  position.  The  discord  resolved  itself 
into  a  melody  so  exquisite  and  far  away  that  it  fell  like  balm 
on  his  soul  and  tears  rushed  to  his  eyes.  Almost  impercepti 
bly  the  music  drifted  into  a  dance-rhythm,  and  he  was  drift 
ing  away  with  it  when  he  was  stunned  by  a  recurrence  of 
the  discord,  and  Etelka  took  the  violin  down  from  her 
shoulder. 

Embarrassed  by  the  unexpected  close,  his  eyes  involuntarily 
sought  the  clay  models  on  the  wall  and  he  examined  them 


316          THE    BALLINGTONS 

anew  in  the  hope  of  discovering  what  influence  such  music 
as  this  had  on  Miriam's  work.  He  was  concluding  that  there 
was  something  of  the  same  abrupt  energy,  daring,  and  grace 
in  both,  when  Etelka  began  playing  again.  This  time  the 
music  was  massive,  grand,  somber — a  fugue  whose  classic 
counterpoint  was  unintelligible  to  Tom.  He  soon  gave  up 
trying  to  follow  the  ever-complicating  voices,  and  looked 
hopelessly  at  Miriam's  face  kindling  into  exaltation  as  she 
played  on  with  ever-deeper  feeling  and  humility;  while 
Etelka,  on  the  other  hand,  seemed  to  dilate  and  blaze  before 
their  eyes  like  some  genius  of  the  elements,  struggling 
heavenward  through  the  network  of  sound. 

Tom  felt  his  last  hope  leave  him  as  the  music  stopped  a 
second  time,  and  Strong  sprang  up,  went  to  the  piano,  and 
began  turning  over  the  leaves  of  music  as  he  discussed  with 
Miriam  and  Etelka  in  turn  of  this  and  that  passage  and  ex 
pressed  unqualified  delight  in  a  composition  which  was  to 
Tom  one  long  excruciation. 

After  Etelka  had  repeated  one  or  two  phrases  at  Strong's 
request,  she  put  up  her  violin  and  came  over  to  Tom.  "  Now 
it  is  Mr.  Ballington's  turn  to  sing,"  she  said  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  way. 

"  I  can't  sing,"  declared  Tom,  looking  across  at  Miriam, 
despair  in  his  heart.  A  gulf  had  opened  and  was  momen 
tarily  widening  between  him  and  somebody  he  had  thought 
he  knew.  Some  way  the  artist  and  the  woman  were  one.  They 
could  not  be  separated.  What  was  in  the  fugue  was  in  her. 
Tom  felt  dimly  that  it  had  to  do  with  the  whole  of  her,  mind 
and  soul.  His  refusal  seemed  a  signal  for  the  company  to 
ply  him  with  urging.  Tom  looked  around  upon  them  and  his 
mood  changed  to  one  of  defiance. 

"  Very  well,  I  will  sing ! "  he  said,  rising  and  seating  him 
self  at  the  piano. 

His  eyes  darkened  and  a  dull  color  came  into  his  cheeks 
as  he  mechanically  went  through  one  of  his  little  Rubinstein 
songs.  All  his  faith  in  its  beauty  had  been  destroyed  by 
Etelka's  fugue. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  317 

When  he  had  sung  it  to  the  bitter  end  he  turned  around 
doggedly,  but  took  care  not  to  meet  Miriam's  eyes.  He 
could  have  thrown  himself  on  the  floor  and  sobbed,  as  the 
group  of  listeners  thanked  him. 

Presently  there  was  an  odor  of  coffee,  and  just  as  the 
hostesses  were  beginning  to  serve  a  salad  the  door  burst  open 
and  Captain  Cass  returned,  red  in  the  face  and  out  of  breath. 
He  swung  himself  out  of  his  greatcoat  and  cap  and  rubbed 
his  hands  together  briskly  before  joining  the  company. 

"You  should  clear  your  decks  before  you  begin  action, 
Miriam ! "  he  said,  kicking  aside  a  fox  rug  and  placing  his 
chair  upon  the  bare  floor.  He  ate  from  the  table.  The 
others  held  their  plates  in  their  laps. 

"  That  is  the  third  time  Blackwell  has  told  me  that  he 
would  be  at  home  when  he  wasn't,"  resumed  the  Captain 
grimly,  after  a  pause.  "  When  I  finally  catch  him,  as  I  shall, 
he  will  wish  he  didn't  have  any  home." 

Tom  eyed  the  speaker  with  swelling  resentment.  How  was 
it  that  he  was  so  at  home  in  this  circle?  He  had  no  business 
to  be.  Yet  he  assumed  equality  with  the  casts  on  the  wall 
and  the  music  on  the  rack.  His  kind  of  energy  and  daring 
outraged  his  daughter's,  and  neither  he  nor  she  appeared  to 
know  it! 

After  the  intermission  there  was  more  music,  but  Miriam 
could  not  persuade  Tom  to  sing  a  second  time.  Presently  he 
rose  and  said  good-night. 

"  We  shall  see  you  again,  I  hope  ?  "  said  Miriam  as  she 
followed  him  to  the  door. 

"  I  think  not."  Tom  paused.  "  I  shall  leave  in  the 
morning." 

"  Won't  you  stay  over  another  day  ?  I  will  take  you 
to  see  the  relief  I  have  just  hung  in  the  Academy  of 
Design." 

Miriam  understood  his  look  and  urged  him  cordially. 

Tom  knew  a  stab  of  happiness.  She  wanted  him,  after  all. 
He  was  about  to  accept  the  invitation  when  Miriam  turned 
to  Mr.  Strong  and  added,  "  We  will  postpone  our  engagement 


318  THE    BALLINGTONS 

till  the  day  after  to-morrow."  Then  she  turned  back  to  Tom 
expectantly. 

He  replied  instantly,  "  It  is  impossible  for  me  to  stay." 
The  last  vexation  was  too  much  for  him.  He  wanted  to  con 
trol  himself  here,  but  habit  was  too  strong.  The  words 
were  uttered  before  he  could  check  them,  though  h£  cursed 
himself  for  a  foal  as  he  spoke.  "  Good-night,"  he  finished 
abruptly. 

He  bowed,  took  his  hat  and  coat,  and  went  away  without 
one  backward  look. 

Miriam  had  her  hand  on  the  door  to  follow  him.  She  felt 
Agnes'  eyes  urging  her  to  do  it.  But  she  dropped  her  hand 
and  turned  back  to  her  guests.  Tom  was  going  off  like  a 
willful  child  in  unreasonable  despondency.  He  should  have 
stood  up  to  it  like  a  man.  It  was  inevitable  that  he  should 
have  been  ill  at  ease  during  the  evening.  It  would  not  be 
well  for  him  if  she  should  obliterate  the  discomfort  he  had 
experienced.  She  believed  he  had  the  strength  of  purpose  to 
translate  that  memory  into  persistent  effort.  Agnes'  letters 
had  proved  that  he  was  under  her  friend's  influence  and 
guidance,  and,  in  that  relation,  he  would  run  no  danger  of 
sentimental  complication.  Hitherto  he  had  been  treated  as 
a  child.  In  no  way  could  strength  come  so  surely  as  in  facing 
discouragement  manfully.  She  had  learned  her  own  greatest 
lessons  so,  and  victory,  hardly  achieved,  brought  with  it  a 
supreme  happiness.  To  leave  the  field  clear  for  such  a  vic 
tory,  in  spite  of  her  sympathy,  she  felt  was  the  best  she  could 
do  for  Tom. 

But  who  can  count  upon  the  feverish  impulses  of  the  human 
spirit?  Miriam  had  underestimated  Tom's  disappointment 
and  overestimated  his  strength  of  purpose. 

The  next  morning  Tom  took  the  early  train  for  home.  All 
the  way  he  found  it  impossible  to  call  up  the  picture  of 
Miriam  without  a  sense  of  mental  distance  and  overwhelming 
loss.  He  dozed  off  in  the  afternoon,  and  woke  up  when  the 
train  slowed  up  at  a  station.  Through  the  car-window  he 
saw  the  statue  of  an  Indian,  tomahawk  in  hand.  It  was  Kent. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  319 

A  temptation  attacked  him.  Beatrice  was  waiting  for  him 
there — she  liked  surprises. 

A  wild  craving  for  outlawry  was  accompanied  with  the 
thought  that  there  would  be  no  doubt  of  her  welcome. 

With  a  muttered  oath  he  snatched  up  his  valise,  ran  out 
of  the  car,  and  jumped  to  the  platform  at  Kent. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THHE  following  summer,  as  he  had  planned,  Ferdinand  left 
for  England  and  the  Continent,  to  be  gone  till  fall.  He 
spent  the  summer  introducing  his  patent  to  the  attention  of 
railroad  men  across  the  water.  It  was  always  his  motto  that 
a  man  must  see  to  things  himself  if  they  were  to  be  done 
thoroughly. 

During  his  absence  Agnes  was  free  to  live  her  own  life. 
She  made  her  plans  before  Ferdinand  left.  She  obtained  a 
position  as  teacher  in  Mr.  Stoddard's  summer  music-school 
and  sang  at  the  Conservatory  concerts  as  well  as  in 
church.  She  spent  many  days  in  Kent  with  her  mother  and 
aunt.  She  caught  eagerly  at  the  privilege  of  re-living  that 
short  period  of  her  life  after  her  father's  death  wherein  she 
had  been  her  mother's  chief  support.  It  seemed  a  good  omen 
to  her  that  Fate  had  reconsidered  for  once,  not  only  given 
back  a  vanished  opportunity,  but  given  her  ampler  power  to 
utilize  it.  She  was  earning  what  seemed  to  her  mother  and 
Aunt  Mattie  a  large  income,  and  it  was  most  grateful  to  her 
to  use  it  chiefly  in  relieving  the  pitiful  economy  of  her 
mother's  family.  Then,  too,  however  brave  a  face  Mrs.  Sid 
ney  had  put  upon  her  expedients,  Agnes  realized  as  she  never 
had  done  before  that  the  last  five  years  had  told  heavily  upon 
even  that  indomitable  will  and  vigorous  physique. 

The  separation  from  her  husband  offered  Agnes  another 
opportunity  which  she  seized  as  earnestly  as  she  did  the  one  to 
regain  elasticity  and  independence.  This  was  a  chance  to  put 
before  Ferdinand,  without  being  interrupted  or  forced  away 
from  the  subject,  certain  questions  which  demanded  settle 
ment:  first,  the  moral  education  and  the  individual  rights  of 
the  children,  together  with  her  own  rights ;  another  concerned 

320 


THE    BALLINGTONS 

Ferdinand's  plans  with  regard  to  her  mother's  home;  still 
another,  Aunt  Margaret's  right  to  an  allowance.  Her  hus 
band's  replies  were  disappointing.  He  answered  her  letters 
kindly  but  evasively,  and  his  own  were  filled  with  absorbing 
accounts  of  his  business  success.  As  they  came,  one  by  one, 
she  watched  with  anxiety  the  developing  passion  in  her  hus 
band  for  financial  power.  Every  step  toward  that  but 
increased  his  impatience  for  more.  She  saw  more  clearly 
than  she  ever  had  seen  how  consuming  his  ambition  was. 
His  cold  and  self-contained  nature  seemed  voracious  for  sym 
pathy  in  one  respect  only,  and  that  was  this  lust  for  money- 
power. 

As  the  bright,  full  days  of  summer  passed  swiftly  on  toward 
fall,  and  Ferdinand's  letters  followed  one  another  unmoved  by 
the  reiterated  appeals  in  her  own,  the  reconsideration  of  fate 
for  which  she  had  been  so  thankful  began  to  take  on  a  grave 
significance  for  Agnes.  It  grew  upon  her  that,  unless  she  could 
make  some  impression  upon  him  while  he  was  away,  her  hus 
band's  return  must  be  the  crisis  of  their  married  life.  The 
eagerness  and  hope  of  June  had  passed  gradually  into  per 
sistent  argument  through  July,  and  by  the  middle  of  August 
she  found  herself  facing  alternatives  of  action,  either  one 
of  which  must  bring  with  it  renunciation. 

There  were  no  services  the  last  two  weeks  of  August  in 
Westminster  Church  in  Winston,  and  Agnes  took  occasion  to 
go  to  Kent  and  stay  over  Sunday  with  her  mother.  She 
talked  late  with  her  mother  Saturday  night  and  overslept 
Sunday  morning  in  consequence.  She  came  down  the  stairs 
of  her  old  home  late  in  the  morning,  and  paused  a  moment  in 
the  front  doorway  looking  out  into  the  quiet  street.  The 
inhabitants  of  Kent  were  in  church,  and  the  sounds  of  hymns 
and  Gregorian  chants  came  from  the  Presbyterian  church 
near  at  hand  and  the  Catholic  church  further  away.  The 
sun  was  hot  and  the  air  full  of  the  stifling  moisture  of  the 
newly-sprinkled  street.  Agnes  listened  until  the  music  ceased, 
then  turned  and  looked  through  the  downstairs  rooms,  calling 
Mrs.  Sidney  and  Aunt  Mattie.  There  was  no  reply,  and  not 


322  THE     BALLINGTONS 

finding  them  In  the  kitchen  she  went  out  to  the  back  door  and 
looked  into  the  garden. 

At  the  farther  end  she  saw  her  mother  expostulating  with 
Aunt  Mattie,  who  was  endeavoring  to  spray  a  rose  bush  with 
the  garden  hose.  Mrs.  Sidney  was  arguing  that  the  Sabbath 
was  not  a  day  to  use  the  hose,  while  Aunt  Mattie  replied  that 
any  day  that  dried  up  flowers  was  a  day  for  spraying.  The 
little  inclosure  of  fruit  trees,  garden  vegetables,  and  old- 
fashioned  formal  flower  beds  was  dripping  from  its  late  shower 
bath,  and  birds  were  diving  and  fluttering  and  chirruping 
with  almost  June-like  abandon  in  the  wet  grass. 

Agnes'  eyes  traveled  in  delight  along  the*  cinder  walk  which 
pursued  its  economical  way  close  to  the  high  board  fence  in 
whose  shade  vegetables  could  not  well  grow.  At  the  farther 
end  of  the  garden,  however,  the  walk  swerved  to  the  left, 
passed  under  a  grape-arbor  and  ended  at  the  barn  door.  The 
spicy  perfume  of  nasturtiums  was  in  the  air,  and  a  florid  mass 
of  dull-red  dahlias  flaunting  in  front  of  one  of  the  posts  of 
the  arbor  completed  the  mid-summer  fullness,  the  cessation  of 
eager,  aspiring  effort,  the  rest  and  leisure  which  hung  over 
the  scene. 

For  a  moment  Agnes  yielded  to  the  nirvana  which  stole 
back  over  her  with  drowsy  memories  of  other  Sabbath  morn 
ings  when  as  a  child  she  had  looked  upon  those  same  scenes 
idly  and  wished  she  could  lie  under  the  grape-arbor  and  dream 
instead  of  going  to  church.  A  moment  later  she  called  out, 
"  Mother,  are  you  staying  home  from  church  to  take  care  of 
your  rose  bushes  ?  Why  didn't  you  call  me  ?  " 

The  two  women  at  the  other  end  of  the  garden  looked  up, 
and  Aunt  Mattie' s  crippled  hands,  slipping  on  the  wet  hose, 
sent  an  unexpected  jet  of  water  against  Mrs.  Sidney's 
shoulder.  It  broke  and  dispersed  in  spray  over  the  rest  of  the 
ample  figure,  and,  with  an  exclamation  of  dismay,  Aunt 
Mattie  dropped  the  hose,  sending  an  aimless  stream  of  water 
hissing  into  the  sod. 

"  Turn  off  the  water  up  there,  Agnes ! "  Mrs.  Sidney  called 
in  a  carefully  controlled  voice ;  and  then,  turning  to  her  depre- 


THE    BALLINGTONS  323 

eating  companion,  she  said  in  a  half-vexed,  half-humorous 
tone,  "That's  the  fourth  time  you've  done  that,  Mattie.  I 
did  think  when  you  turned  the  hose  on  me  the  third  time  last 
Wednesday  that  would  end  it."  Then,  shaking  the  drops 
from  her  clothes,  she  took  Aunt  Mattie's  arm  and  assisted 
the  cripple  toward  the  house.  Agnes  noticed  with  amuse 
ment  that  her  mother  had  by  no  means  lost  the  power  of 
enjoying  a  joke  at  her  own  expense,  while  Aunt  Mattie  looked 
unnaturally  humble. 

"Well,  I  guess  I'm  well  punished  for  staying  at  home," 
said  Mrs.  Sidney  when  they  reached  the  steps.  "  I  thought, 
since  you  didn't  have  to  sing  in  church  to-day,  that  I'd  just 
let  you  sleep  and  have  a  late  breakfast.  Meantime  Mattie 
nearly  killed  herself  getting  out  here  alone  to  water  this 
yard.  She  turned  the  water  on  and  did  the  whole  thing 
herself." 

A  gleam  of  pride  and  triumph  transfigured  for  a  moment 
Aunt  Mattie's  humility,  confirming  Mrs.  Sidney's  assertion. 

"  I  had  just  gone  out  there  to  help  her  into  the  house 
when  she  turned  the  last  drops  on  me,"  Mrs.  Sidney  finished 
as  they  reached  the  porch. 

Agnes  descended  a  step  or  two  to  assist  in  getting  Aunt 
Mattie  into  the  house. 

Then  Mrs.  Sidney  insisted  upon  the  other  two  women 
sitting  upon  the  front  veranda  while  she  changed  her  waist 
and  put  breakfast  on  the  table.  A  little  later  her  cheery 
voice  called  them  to  the  dining-room. 

Agnes  sat  down  to  the  table  with  an  exclamation  of 
delight. 

"  I  tell  you,  mother,  nobody  but  you  knows  how  to  get 
up  a  breakfast  like  this.  You  have  fixed  places  for  yourself 
and  Aunt  Mattie,  too.  I'm  glad  you  waited  for  me." 

"Yes.  You  can't  muzzle  the  ox  that  treadeth  out  the 
corn,"  her  mother  returned,  as  she  sat  down  with  a  long  sigh 
of  relief. 

The  three  chatted  fitfully  for  a  few  minutes;  then  Mrs. 
Sidney  asked  with  gravity : 


324  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"  Has  Tom  Ballington  given  up  caring  for  Miriam  Cass, 
Agnes  ?  " 

"  No,  mother,  I  think  not,"  returned  Agnes,  uncomfort 
ably. 

"Well,  he  is  acting  as  though  he  never  cared  for  any 
decent  girl,"  Mrs.  Sidney  went  on.  "  It  won't  be  long 
before  Fred  Sidney's  wife  will  be  involved  in  a  scandal.  If 
he  cares  for  Miriam  Cass,  why  don't  you  get  her  to  use  her 
influence  with  him  ?  " 

"  She  has  used  it,  mamma,  but  Miriam  is  never  going  to 
marry.  Tom  knows  that  she  never  will  marry  him." 

"How  does  he  know  that?"  demanded  the  old  lady,  lean 
ing  back  in  her  chair. 

"  Mamma,  you  wouldn't  have  Miriam  marry  Tom  the  way 
he  is  now,  would  you?  Not  that  he's  bad,"  Agnes  added 
hastily. 

"  No,"  Mrs.  Sidney  assented,  "  I  suppose  she  is  too  good 
for  him.  But  a  young  woman  ought  to  use  her  influence 
for  good,  and  I  don't  like  this  new-fashioned  way  girls  are 
getting  of  thinking  they're  above  marrying.  What  is  her 
reason  for  never  marrying  ?  " 

Agnes  looked  thoughtfully  at  her  mother.  "  Miriam  feels 
that  she  has  a  gift  in  carving  which  she  ought  to  exercise. 
She  says  that  sooner  or  later  the  necessity  for  it,  if  she 
should  marry,  would  interfere  disastrously  with  her  domestic 
happiness.  She  might  have  married  either  of  two  men  whom 
she  respects  highly  and  who  have  brilliant  futures  before 
them,  but  she  feels  that  she  must  work  her  own  way." 

"  Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Sidney  decidedly,  "  Harriet  Beecher 
Stowe  wrote  *  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin '  while  she  rocked  a  cradle. 
However,  although  I  don't  agree  with  your  friend,  I  must 
say  I  think  it  is  better  for  a  woman  to  stay  out  of  it  than  it 
is  to  go  in  and  blaspheme  it.  There  is  Beatrice,  who  has  been 
married  longer  than  you  have,  with  no  children,  and  carrying 
on  without  any  conscience  about  home  or  husband.  It  is  a 
bad  situation  when  a  self-willed  woman  holds  the  purse- 
strings." 


THE    BALLINGTONS  325 

"  Yes,"  assented  Aunt  Mattie,  "  only  self-willed  men  should 
hold  the  purse-strings." 

Mrs.  Sidney  glanced  quickly  at  her  sister-in-law,  then  at 
Agnes,  and  with  an  effort  suppressed  something  that  she 
evidently  wanted  to  say. 

Aunt  Mattie  continued.  "General  Mott  always  kept  a 
liberal  establishment  at  home  and  then  went  and  did  as  he 
liked  elsewhere.  Beatrice  keeps  up  her  house  well,  too,  and 
Fred  could  have  as  much  of  her  money  as  he  wanted,  if  he'd 
take  it.  He  is  in  a  much  better  condition  than  Mrs.  Mott 
was,  and,  if  he  would  give  up  the  bank,  Beatrice  says  he 
never  would  have  another  thing  to  complain  of  in  her." 

"  Mattie,  I'm  ashamed  of  you,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney,  con 
siderably  stirred  up  by  this  impartiality.  "  Sometimes  it 
seems  to  me  as  if  your  sitting  around  and  looking  on  at 
things  had  turned  you  into  wood.  You  ought  to  be  afraid 
of  passing  lightly  on  moral  matters  the  way  you  do.  One 
would  think  to  hear  you  talk  that  General  Mott  was  an  exem 
plary  man,  and  that  if  Beatrice  is  like  him  that  excuses  her 
for  anything  she  takes  it  into  her  head  to  do.  If  you  don't 
use  your  moral  sense  in  judging  situations,  Mattie,  you  won't 
have  any  moral  sense  pretty  soon.  If  I  didn't  know  what 
a  good  wife  you  always  were  to  Stephen's  brother,"  she 
added  more  amicably,  "  I'd  think  you  didn't  have  any  idea 
of  the  sanctity  of  marriage.  Marriage  isn't  a  thing  of 
money." 

"  Neither  Walter  nor  I  ever  found  it  so,"  reflected  Aunt 
Mattie. 

Mrs.  Sidney  looked  at  her  a  few  moments  with  many  things 
to  say  and  no  way  to  say  them.  Then  with  an  effort  she 
brought  her  mind  back  to  Beatrice. 

"If  Beatrice  had  some  children  to  take  care  of,"  she 
began  again,  "  she  wouldn't  have  time  or  energy  to  throw 
away  on  Thomas  Ballington." 

Agnes  looked  across  at  her  mother  for  a  moment. 
"  Mamma,"  she  said  at  last,  "  ever  since  I  married  I've  been 
trying  to  decide  just  what  is  a  wife's  duty.  You  can't  just 


326  THE     BALLINGTONS 

say  children  are  from  the  Lord.  We  all  know  that  the  Lord 
doesn't  have  anything  to  do  with  a  good  many  little  waifs. 
I  believe  with  you  that  Beatrice  would  be  better  off  if  there 
were  children  in  the  family.  I  am  most  thankful  for  my 
own.  I  believe  that  children  should  be  sent  to  families  who 
can  care  for  them  and  that  it's  a  sin  to  refuse  the  parental 
responsibility  of  marriage.  At  the  same  time,  mamma,  look 
at  Helen.  We  all  know  that  Pleasant  could  hardly  take  care 
of  himself  alone.  Helen  might  have  taken  care  of  a  small 
family.  I  could  take  care  of  my  two.  But  what  can  she  do 
with  six  ?  " 

"  Well,"  said  Aunt  Mattie  impersonally,  "  she  can  care  for 
six  a  good  deal  better  than  she  can  care  for  ten  a  few  years 
from  now." 

Mrs.  Sidney  hesitated,  then  valor  got  the  better  of  dis 
cretion,  and  she  replied  dauntlessly,  "  I  thank  the  Lord  that 
my  children  don't  shirk  their  duty.  The  mother  of  the 
Wesleys  had  eighteen  children." 

"How  many  of  them  grew  up?"  interposed  Aunt  Mattie 
with  interest. 

Mrs.  Sidney  withered  her  with  a  glance,  but  did  not  offer 
to  answer  the  question.  "Mrs.  Wesley  was  a  wonderful 
woman  and  she  was  well  rewarded  in  the  lives  of  her  sons. 
If  Helen  lives  to  have  ten  children,  the  older  ones  will  by  that 
time  be  able  to  help  support  the  family.  All  the  children  will 
be  trained  to  thrift  and  unselfishness." 

"It's  a  pity  that  Pleasant  can't  be  trained,  too,"  said 
Aunt  Mattie  regretfully. 

"Mattie,"  demanded  Mrs.  Sidney,  roused  to  sweep  her 
antagonist  from  the  field  and  put  an  end  to  these  irritating 
interruptions,  "  do  you  want  all  women  to  do  the  way 
Beatrice  is  doing  ?  " 

"  They  couldn't,"  said  Aunt  Mattie  simply. 

"I  asked  you,"  repeated  Mrs.  Sidney  with  fire  in  her  eye, 
"  if  you  wanted  them  to  ?  " 

"No,"  replied  Aunt  Mattie  placidly,  not  properly  realiz 
ing  the  ignominy  of  her  defeat. 


THE     BALLINGTONS  327 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?"  said  her  now  thoroughly 
exasperated  sister-in-law. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Aunt  Mattie  with  unprejudiced 
candor. 

Agnes  could  no  longer  control  a  desire  to  laugh,  and  this 
was  the  last  straw  laid  upon  her  mother's  forbearance.  She 
was  at  last  goaded  into  saying  something  which  she  never 
had  allowed  herself  to  think  before,  much  less  to  express,  and 
for  which  she  never  forgave  herself  afterwards. 

"Well,  if  you  had  had  some  children  yourself,  Mattie, 
you'd  be  a  good  deal  better  off  than  you  are  now.  You're 
like  all  the  other  critics  who  find  fault  with  people  who  are 
doing  the  best  they  know  how.  If  you  were  doing  something 
yourself  you'd  have  more  right  to  talk.  Meantime,  I'll  trust 
the  Lord's  plan  of  running  the  universe  rather  than  yours. 
He,  at  least,  knows  what  He's  about,  if  we  don't." 

"  I  hope  He  does,"  replied  Aunt  Mattie  doggedly.  "  He 
was  the  one  who  decided  I  shouldn't  have  any  children  and 
that  I  should  be  a  helpless  burden  on  you,  Kate." 

Mrs.  Sidney's  wrath  instantly  cooled.  "  That  was  a 
wicked  thing  for  me  to  say,  Mattie,  and  I  hope  you'll  forgive 
me.  I  was  carried  away  because  you  blamed  Helen  for  set 
ting  her  shoulder  to  the  wheel.  She's  had  a  pretty  hard  time, 
but  she's  raising  her  children  well.  They're  a  good  deal 
better  off  than  the  single 'child  of  rich  parents." 

"  Well,"  Aunt  Mattie  returned,  ignoring  the  late  personal 
turn  of  the  conversation,  "  I  should  be  better  satisfied  if 
Helen  was  setting  Pleasant's  shoulder  to  the  wheel." 

Agnes  divined  in  her  aunt's  tone  that  her  thoughts 
were  not  altogether  upon  Helen's  situation  any  more  than 
her  own  had  been.  The  conversation  had  but  made  ob 
jective  the  complications  which  she  herself  must  face  at  no 
distant  time.  The  unsuccessful  correspondence  with  Ferdi 
nand  had  brought  home  to  her  the  knowledge  that  her 
summer's  position  of  compromise  between  wifely  duties  and 
financial  independence  could  not  be  permanent.  She  knew 
her  husband  was  bitterly  although  tacitly  opposed  to  it,  and 


328  .THE     BALLINGTONS 

she  now  clearly  saw  that  he  looked  forward  to  the  time  when 
it  would  become  untenable.  He  expected  to  demonstrate  to 
her  that  in  the  course  of  nature  she  could  not  be  a  normal 
wife  and  an  independent  wage-earner.  At  the  same  time  he 
would  make  no  concession  in  the  way  of  settling  an  allow 
ance  on  her.  She  knew  him  well  enough  to  feel  sure  that  he 
was  waiting  for  unconditional  triumph. 

In  short,  her  brief  assertion  of  personal  rights  had  already 
broadened  into  the  gravest  possible  issue.  This  issue  involved 
nothing  less  than  the  alternative  of  living  with  Ferdinand 
and  bringing  up  an  increasing  family  in  entire  dependence 
upon  him,  or  with  at  best  short  intervals  of  partial  independ 
ence  when  she  might  be  able  to  resume  outside  work;  or  the 
no  less  serious  alternative  of  leaving  him  and  living  an 
independent  life  with  the  knowledge  that  he  would  obtain  and 
keep  control  of  the  children  as  soon  and  for  as  long  a  period 
as  the  law  would  allow.  There  was  no  middle  course.  When 
it  came  to  the  point  of  leaving  Ferdinand,  and  she  now 
knew  that  he  would  force  the  issue  to  that  point,  Agnes'  mind 
staggered.  Grave  as  were  her  accusations  of  her  husband, 
could  they  justify  the  breaking  up  of  his  family? 

After  she  had  finished  her  breakfast,  in  obedience  to  Mrs. 
Sidney's  peremptory  request,  Agnes  helped  her  aunt  out  to 
the  veranda  and  stayed  with  her  a  few  minutes.  Then  she 
excused  herself  on  the  plea  of  writing  some  letters,  and  went 
to  her  room. 

Once  up  in  her  own  room  Agnes  sat  down  to  her  table, 
but,  instead  of  writing,  drew  toward  her  and  opened  a 
leather  case  full  of  old  letters  which  she  had  brought  home 
with  her.  She  took  out  one  of  the  letters  and  glanced  at  the 
indorsement.  "  To  my  daughter  Agnes,  to  read  when  she  is 
about  to  decide  on  marriage.  S.  S."  Her  eyes  lingered  a 
little  on  the  familiar  handwriting,  then  with  a  sigh  she  drew 
out  the  letter. 

It  was  but  a  few  words  on  a  single  sheet  of  paper: 


THE    BALLINGTONS  329 

MY  DEAR  DAUGHTER: 

In  making  one  of  the  most  far-reaching  decisions  of  your  life  I  want 
you  to  remember  the  greatest  facts  of  life.  Love  is  underneath  and 
above  us  all  like  the  everlasting  arms.  The  law  of  love  is  the  law  of 
God.  But  love  is  something -more  than  you  know  yet.  It  takes  years 
of  suffering  to  make  us  understand  it.  Don't  follow  your  imagination 
in  making  this  decision,  but  remember  that  all  the  great  souls  who  have 
loved  most  in  this  world  have  also  endured  most.  You  will  have  trials 
and  wearinesses  and  disappointments.  Choose  none  but  a  man  you  can 
trust  and  honor,  and  having  married  him  forgive  seventy  times  seven. 
Marriage  is  for  life  and  death,  and  there  is  only  one  way  to  live  and 
die.  Our  Master  knew  what  it  was.  "  And  I,  if  I  be  lifted  up,  will 
draw  all  men  unto  me."  If  we  would  be  loved  all  our  lives,  we  must 
sacrifice  ourselves  all  our  lives.  Only  so  can  we  draw. 

God  bless  you. 

YOUE  FATHER. 

Agnes  knew  the  letter  by  heart,  and  now,  as  she  read  it 
for  the  hundredth  time,  her  eyes  unconsciously  rested  long 
on  the  sentence,  "  Choose  none  but  a  man  you  can  trust  and 
honor."  There  was  the  rub.  She  could  not  hide  from  her 
self  the  fact  that  she  did  not  trust  or  honor  Ferdinand. 
Yet  her  situation  was  one  she  had  brought  on  herself,  and 
when  she  did  so  she  solemnly  had  vowed  to  love,  honor  and 
cherish  her  husband  so  long  as  they  both  should  live.  She 
had  made  the  promise  before  she  knew  what  it  involved,  and 
she  had  mistaken  the  man  whom  she  had  married,  but  these 
were  not  excuses  a  person  of  her  Puritan  training  could 
conscientiously  plead.  It  should  have  been  her  business  to 
find  out  what  she  was  doing  before  she  married. 

She  leaned  her  forehead  on  her  hands  and  endeavored  to 
think  clearly.  It  was  not  the  sacrifice  of  herself  that  she 
shrank  from  in  going  back  to  Ferdinand's  control.  The 
whole  force  of  her  early  education  and  later  training,  of  her 
mother's  example,  and  of  her  own  observation,  bore  with 
overwhelming  insistence  upon  the  one  point,  the  necessity  of 
self-sacrifice  in  the  life  that  was  to  be  lived  for  the  highest 
good.  What  she  dreaded  was  giving  up  the  privilege  of 
helping  her  mother  and  sister,  sinking  to  a  powerless  posi 
tion  in  her  own  home,  strengthening  Ferdinand's  arbitrary 
will — and  behind  all  these,  doing  violence  to  the  principles 


330  THE    BALLINGTONS 

of  liberty  and  justice  in  themselves.  Was  it  possible  that 
the  law  of  love,  which  is  the  law  of  God,  required  submission 
to  injustice? 

Agnes  had  asked  herself  many  times  during  the  summer 
just  passed  what  it  was  that  was  meant  by  the  word  "  love," 
so  vital  to  the  marriage  ordinance.  She  had  been  aware  for 
a  long  time  that  Ferdinand  and  she  interpreted  it  differently 
and  that  he  considered  her  grudging  in  its  fulfillment.  To 
him  true  wifely  love  appeared  to  entail,  besides  the  primal 
duty  of  bearing  and  raising  children,  a  constant  concur 
rence  with  the  husband's  will,  a  satisfied  recognition  of  his 
reason,  a  grateful  response  to  his  affection,  and  ready  sym 
pathy  with  his  needs.  This  summed  up  her  moral  obligation. 
Very  soon  after  her  marriage  Agnes  had  struck  out  from 
her  own  conception  of  marriage-love  the  concurrence  with 
her  husband's  will;  some  time  afterwards  she  had  removed 
the  conviction  of  his  reason ;  her  affection  and  sympathy  had 
changed  gradually  in  character.  Now  she  found  herself 
considering  the  responsibility  of  the  most  elemental  of 
wifely  duties,  "  the  primal  duty  of  bearing  and  raising  chil 
dren."  The  seriousness  of  the  question  at  stake  made  her 
quail.  She  felt  that  she  had  reached  the  crux  of  her  di 
lemma.  All  society  was  built  upon  this  relationship,  and,  in 
return,  fortified  and  protected  it.  No  other  relationship 
went  so  deep  or  extended  so  far,  as  this  which  meant  the  per 
petuation  of  the  species.  All  the  others  existed  for  it  or 
grew  out  of  it.  How  dared  she  consider  breaking  it? 

Along  with  self -distrust,  and  directly  challenging  it,  there 
came  to  her  troubled  mind  some  words  of  Miriam's :  "  You 
do  not  submit  to  injustice  for  yourself  alone.  If  you  evade 
the  material  struggle,  you  prepare  defeat  for  yourself  in  the 
later  spiritual  struggle."  If  Ferdinand  refused  justice,  what 
right  had  she  to  evade  the  issue? 

With  a  heavy  heart  she  returned  to  her  father's  letter. 
"  Marriage  is  for  life  and  death,"  he  said.  This,  Agnes'  own 
experience  corroborated.  Ecstasy,  confidence,  respect,  all 
gone,  she  nevertheless  was  aware  in  her  contemplation  of  her 


THE    BALLINGTONS  331 

marriage  of  something  which  made  it  irrevocable  and  eternal. 
It  was  not  duty,  nor  was  it  the  existence  of  her  children. 
Neither  was  it  love,  as  that  word  is  commonly  interpreted. 
It  was  a  bond  which  to  the  pure  in  heart  is  indissoluble. 

This  bond  her  father  knew.  Miriam  did  not.  The  Scrip 
tural  text  about  a  man's  leaving  father  and  mother  to  cleave 
to  his  wife  was  not  arbitrary.  It  was  founded  upon  a  law  of 
nature,  and  she  was  being  pushed  to  the  conclusion  that  to  that 
law  she  must  bow.  Violence  to  the  marriage  bond  meant  ruin 
to  society,  violation  of  the  soul.  She  must  bear  a  less  wrong 
to  avoid  committing  a  greater. 

With  the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks  she  put  the  letter 
back  in  the  case  and  drew  toward  her  the  unfinished  sheets 
she  had  begun  the  night  before  for  Ferdinand.  -"  I  must 
draw  my  husband.  I  cannot  drive  him.  My  father  is  right. 
We  must  sacrifice  ourselves  all  our  lives  if  we  would  make 
men  better." 

As  she  quoted  her  father's  lines,  the  gentle  and  saintly 
spirit  that  had  written  them  seemed  close  to  her,  under 
standing  her  struggles,  sympathizing  with  her  self-renuncia 
tion,  sustaining  her  faltering  courage,  leading  her  with 
unswerving  steps  along  that  ever  narrower  and  steeper  path 
whose  end  was  hidden  in  darkness. 

Darkness !  for  she  had  accepted  a  paradox,  that  the  law 
of  God  required  what  was  unjust. 


CHAPTER  IX 

LJ^ERDINAND  arrived  in  New  York  the  day  before  Sena 
tor  Balf our  was  to  make  the  long-deferred  visit  to  Kent, 
and  Agnes  telegraphed  her  husband  to  meet  her  at  her 
mother's  home  and  go  with  her  to  the  reception  for  the  Sena 
tor  afterwards.  As  this  reception  was  to  be  given  at  the 
home  of  Fred  and  Beatrice  Sidney,  Agnes  was  relieved  when 
the  answering  telegram  came  acquiescing  in  the  plan. 

Nothing  but  his  long  friendship  with  the  Sidneys  would 
have  brought  Senator  Balfour  to  Kent.  The  heterogeneous 
company  who  had  been  invited  to  meet  him  in  Mrs.  Fred  Sid 
ney's  parlors  did  not  know  this  fact,  however,  and  there  was 
not  a  cloud  upon  the  civic  pride  which  beamed  upon  him  from 
every  countenance.  Beatrice  had  asked  Mrs.  Sidney  to 
receive  the  guests  with  the  Senator,  and,  buoyed  up  by  his 
companion's  hearty  pleasure  in  introducing  him,  the  bored 
old  statesman  felt  a  prick  of  interest  himself.  Between  the 
introductions  they  talked  together. 

Rather  late  in  the  evening  he  asked  abruptly,  "  Who  is 
that  just  greeting  your  niece?  " 

Mrs.  Sidney's  eyes  followed  his,  and  she  exclaimed  with 
unaffected  satisfaction,  "  Well,  there  they  are  at  last !  That's 
Agnes  and  her  husband.  Ferdinand  looks  as  though  Eng 
land  had  agreed  with  him.  He's  just  got  home  to-day.  He's 
been  patenting  his  new  invention.  Doesn't  she  look  like 
Stephen?  I  tell  her  if  she  behaves  as  well  as  she  looks,  she 
won't  disgrace  her  father." 

Senator  Balfour  did  not  reply.  As  the  daughter  of  his 
old  friend  approached  him  he  was  stung  by  the  realization  of 
lost  youth.  There  is  no  death's-head  so  startling  as  a  young 
face  that  smiles  at  our  age  with  eyes  that  answered  our  own 
just  so  forty  ye&rs  ago.  The  keen,  elderly  face  watching 

332 


THE    BALLINGTONS  333 

Agnes  approach  reflected  something  of  the  emotion  roused 
by  her  appearance.  The  ironical  mouth  that  the  funny 
papers  found  so  easy  to  caricature  changed  its  expression 
suddenly  as  he  went  to  meet  her. 

He  held  her  hand  in  acknowledgment  of  the  introduction, 
and  then,  instead  of  the  commonplaces  he  had  been  uttering 
all  the  evening,  he  ended  a  few  moments'  silent  scrutiny,  as 
he  released  her  hand,  with  the  phrase,  "  The  face  that 
launched  a  thousand  ships." 

His  eyes  wandered  over  the  pearl  satin  of  her  gown  and 
the  opals  on  her  neck,  and  he  thought  that  both  seemed  to 
reflect  her  vivid  flush,  as  she  replied  at  once, 

"'The  Scythian  Tamburlaine? 
Whose  fiery  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  earth, 
As  if  he  now  devis'd  some  stratagem.' " 

Balfour  laughed  aloud  with  the  joy  of  one  who  discovers 
that  his  fine  carbuncle  is  a  royal  ruby.  "  My  dear  young 
lady !  I  supposed  that  I  was  one  of  the  very  last  cave-dwell 
ers  who  still  read  Marlowe.  Your  father  and  I  used  to  spout 
those  lines  forty  years  ago.  Is  it  possible  that  you  have  read 
Tamburlaine — or  did  you  cram  beforehand,  knowing  my 
weak  point  ?  "  His  shrewd  eyes  twinkled  through  the  shaggy 
eyebrows  he  drew  down  over  them  suddenly. 

A  string  trio  began  to  play  in  one  of  the  windowed  recesses. 
Sentor  Balfour  remained  by  Agnes'  side,  conversing  with  her 
interruptedly,  while  the  group  around  them  changed  contin 
ually. 

As  Ferdinand  paused  in  one  of  the  doorways  to  glance 
through  the  rooms,  Mrs.  Sidney  came  up  behind  him  and 
touched  his  arm.  "  Ferdinand,  I  want  you  to  notice  Agnes." 

"  I  have  been  noticing  her  all  the  evening." 

"  Then  notice  Senator  Balfour,  and  remember  that  he  is  a 
statesman.  Then  I  want  you  to  remember  something  I  said 
one  time  that  you  contradicted.  Another  time  I  want  you  to 
be  more  careful  about  contradicting  an  old  woman  who  knew 
a  statesman  before  you  were  born." 


334  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Ferdinand  was  amused  by  his  mother-in-law's  triumph. 
"Agnes  is  now  the  social  peer  of  a  statesman.  She  could 
not  have  interested  the  Senator  like  that  when  I  married  her, 
however.  She  has  developed,  you  must  remember." 

Ferdinand  was  conscious  of  a  listener  behind  him,  and, 
turning,  saw  Fred  Sidney. 

The  newcomer  spoke  at  once.  "Have  you  time  to  come 
into  the  den  a  moment,  Mr.  Ballington?  There's  a  matter  I 
want  to  talk  over  with  you."  His  manner  and  voice  were 
unusually  friendly  to  his  cousin's  husband,  but  his  eyes  were 
burning. 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Ferdinand,  wondering  what  Fred 
Sidney  could  want  to  see  him  about,  "  I'll  come  now." 

They  went  upstairs  to  the  smoking-room,  and  Fred  closed 
the  door. 

"  Will  you  smoke?  "  asked  Fred,  going  to  the  table  without 
glancing  at  his  companion. 

"  No,  thanks." 

Fred  motioned  Ferdinand  to  a  seat,  while  he  himself 
remained  standing,  his  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets. 

"  I  hope,"  he  said,  still  in  the  friendly  voice  that  con 
trasted  oddly  with  the  hostile  eyes,  "  that  you  can  forget  for 
a  little  while  that  you  are  an  inventor  and  capitalist  and  that 
I  am  a  bank  clerk." 

"I  don't  know  why  you  say  that,  Sidney,"  replied  Ferdi 
nand  flushing  slightly ;  "  I  never  thought  the  less  of  you  for 
being  a  bank  clerk." 

Then  he  noticed  Fred's  haggard  face  with  its  fever  spots, 
and  a  light  broke  upon  him.  The  words  "bank  clerk" 
recalled  Beatrice's  habitual  jeer  at  her  husband's  occupation. 
Ferdinand  had  already  satisfied  himself  from  his  cross-exam 
ination  of  Agnes,  on  the  way  to  Fred  Sidney's  house,  that 
Beatrice  and  Tom  were  again  entangled  and  that  the  quarrel 
between  Fred  and  his  wife  on  the  subject  of  the  bank  was 
becoming  acute. 

"  I  imagine  I  know  what  you  want  to  say,"  he  began  again 
in  an  altered  voice.  "You  have  no  idea  of  taking  all  that 


THE    BALLINGTONS  335 

talk  about  your  business  to  heart,  I  hope?  I  have  admired 

your  cool  persistence,  Sidney.  When  your  wife  loses " 

The  last  sentences  were  fairly  amiable.  Fred  doubtless  was 
about  to  ask  him  for  advice. 

"  It  is  your  wife  and  not  mine  I  want  to  talk  about,"  Fred 
interrupted. 

"  I  don't  care  to  discuss  my  wife  with  you  or  any  other 
man,"  returned  Ferdinand  instantly. 

Then  he  half  regretted  his  words.  Suspicion  entered  his 
mind  that  Fred  had  some  disclosure  to  make.  His  irritation 
against  him  was  somewhat  allayed. 

Fred's  next  words  continued  the  assuaging  process. 
"  Agnes  was  my  cousin  before  she  was  your  wife.  We  were 
brought  up  together,  and  she  is  just  the  same  as  my  sister. 
During  the  summer  she  has  been  up  here  several  times  and  I 
have  become  worried  about  her." 

"Do  you  mean  she  is  working  too  hard?"  asked  Ferdi 
nand.  "  It's  her  own  doing." 

"  No,"  returned  Fred  quickly ;  "  her  work  has  given  her 
more  happiness  than  anything  she  has  had  since  her  mar 
riage." 

Ferdinand  maintained  a  dignified  silence. 

"  Agnes  is  unhappy,"  Fred  went  on  distinctly.  "  Some 
thing  is  troubling  her.  I  know  all  the  marks  of  concealed 
misery." 

Ferdinand's  eyes  became  watchful. 

After  a  slight  pause  he  said  carelessly,  "  Your  solicitude 
is  unnecessary,  Sidney.  The  first  years  of  married  life  are 
always  hard  on  the  wife.  There's  the  physical  strain  and 
the  mental  one  of  readjusting  herself  to  a  new  environment, 
but  that  is  a  morbid  idea  you  have  about  concealed  misery. 
She  is  getting  on  better  than  most  young  wives.  She  will 
drop  this  new  fad  herself,  in  time.  I  haven't  hurried  her.  She 
has  had  every  opportunity  to  develop.  Instead  of  worrying, 
look  how  she  has  improved  the  last  few  years.  She  wanted 
only  time  and  opportunity  to  become  what  she  has.  She 
has  had  both." 


336  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Ferdinand  had  not  intended  to  say  so  much  when  he  began, 
but  he  was  thinking,  while  he  spoke,  of  other  things. 

Fred's  next  words  gave  him  a  start.  They  were  spoken  in 
a  high  and  hard  tone.  "  A  person  wants  only  time  and  oppor 
tunity  to  die.  I  don't  know  what  you  call  hurrying!  You 
have  forced  what  you  call  her  '  development '  to  the  limit  of 
endurance.  First  thing  you  know  there  will  be  a  snap.  You 
needn't  think  she  has  been  talking  matters  over  with  me,"  he 
added  as  another  thought  struck  him. 

Then  he  stopped,  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  and 
tried  to  quiet  his  mind.  The  long  strain  of  his  difference  with 
Beatrice  was  telling  on  his  nerves.  He  warned  himself  that 
this  was  not  the  way  to  gain  consideration.  He  was  rousing 
anger.  Ferdinand  had  risen  and  was  about  to  leave  the  room 
without  a  word.  Fred  bit  his  lip,  then  stopped  him.  "  Wait 
a  moment,  Mr.  Ballington.  I  did  not  intend  to  use  this  tone 
toward  you.  I  was  betrayed  into  it  and  I  beg  your  pardon." 

There  was  no  response  from  the  man  watching  him. 

Fred  continued  with  an  effort  to  conciliate,  "  Agnes  has 
developed  as  few  women  do.  She  gives  great  promise  for  the 
future.  I  am  glad  you  see  it  and  want  her  to  realize  it.  I 
am  glad  you  have  let  her  follow  her  own  bent,  too.  If  you 
let  her  have  the  liberty  she  has  had  this  past  summer,  for  a 
year  or  two  longer,  she  will  get  back  her  youth  and  add  to  it 
the  vigor  of  maturity.  You  must  see  what  the  last  months 
have  meant  to  her.  If  you  can't  see  it,  for  God's  sake  take 
the  word  of  anybody  who  has  known  her ! " 

Ferdinand  turned  to  the  door. 

When  he  reached  it,  Fred  spoke  again  from  the  middle  of 
the  room.  He  had  turned  white  and  his  voice  shook.  "  God ! 
You  ought  to  be  shot  dead  before  you  leave  this  house ! " 

Ferdinand  neither  hastened  nor  retarded  his  steps.  He  left 
the  room  without  a  glance  behind  and  closed  the  door  quietly 
after  him.  There  was  an  unusual  color  in  his  cheeks  and  his 
eyes  roved  impatiently  as  he  went  down  into  the  lower  hall. 

Agnes  was  singing  in  the  music-room.  It  was  a  song  whose 
long  notes  gave  her  cello-like  voice  full  sweep  and  grandeur. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  337 

Her  late  training  told  magnificently  in  the  purity  and  con 
trol  of  the  notes. 

Ferdinand  went  to  the  door  and  stood  watching  her.  His 
recent  conversation  with  Fred  Sidney  had  but  touched  his 
pride  and  sense  of  ownership — had  put  an  edge  on  gentler 
feelings.  His  eyes  followed  his  wife  as  she  left  her  place  and 
crossed  the  drawing-room  with  Senator  Balfour.  For  an 
instant  Ferdinand  saw  her  pause  and  look  up  at  her  escort. 
He  caught  the  soft  light  of  her  hair,  the  splendor  of  her  eyes, 
the  gleam  of  satin,  and  the  changing  flash  of  her  opals. 
Then  she  disappeared  from  his  sight. 

The  evening  had  become  wearisome  to  him  and  he  wished 
to  go.  He  went  into  the  parlor,  passed  around  behind  the 
guests,  and  sat  down  on  a  window-seat.  Scraps  of  conversa 
tion  reached  him  from  different  parts  of  the  room;  Tom's 
voice,  gruff  and  sulky,  refusing  to  sing;  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Carter's  flowing  placidly  and  monotonously  along  as  though 
he  were  in  the  middle  of  the  "  long  prayer";  a  jovial  ques 
tion  from  Beatrice  to  her  husband,  asking  if  he  thought  she 
were  Job  that  he  didn't  pay  any  attention  to  what  she  was 
saying. 

Near  him  a  voice  which  seemed  to  continue  the  song 
sounded  intermittently,  answered  by  the  whimsical  inflections 
of  the  Senator.  Agnes  certainly  had  succeeded  in  arousing 
the  famous  guest's  interest,  and  Ferdinand  was  struck  by  the 
different  way  in  which  her  remarks  were  received  from  the 
indifferent  responses  he  himself  had  drawn  from  the  Senator 
earlier  in  the  evening. 

He  looked  at  his  watch  .impatiently,  then  rose  and  made 
his  way  in  the  direction  of  Agnes'  voice. 

She  saw  him  coming  and  raised  the  cordial  glass  she  was 
holding  in  her  hand,  touched  her  lips  to  it,  and  elevated  it  still 
higher  in  mute  salutation.  The  Venetian  glass  cast  an  amber 
light  on  her  bare  arm  and  neck.  "  We  have  missed  you  for 
some  time,"  she  said  with  the  Sidney  smile,  which  ended  in 
sadness. 

"  Let  us  go,"  he  replied  briefly.    "  It  is  very  late." 


338  THE     BALLINGTONS 

She  arose  at  once,  said  good-by  to  her  friends,  and  went  to 
the  dressing-room. 

"  Mrs.  Ballington  is  going,"  said  several  voices  as  she 
came  down  the  stairs  with  her  long  cloak  hanging  open  from 
her  shoulders,  and  a  group  of  her  friends  gathered  in  the 
hall. 

Ferdinand  stood  waiting  till  she  had  passed  through  the 
door  and  then  he  followed  her.  She  paused  in  the  vestibule 
for  a  last  good-by. 

"Don't  forget  us,  Agnes,"  called  Fred  from  the  hallway. 
It  cost  him  an  untold  effort  to  choke  down  his  emotions  into 
those  words. 

Senator  Balfour  gave  a  slight  sigh  as  the  door  closed  and 
then  turned  back  to  Mrs.  Sidney. 

As  husband  and  wife  went  down  the  steps  a  gust  of  wind 
rushed  by  them  heralding  the  approach  of  a  storm. 

It  grew  darker  and  sultrier,  the  horses  plunged  going 
down  the  hill,  and  just  as  they  reached  the  little  hotel  where 
Ferdinand  had  insisted  on  passing  the  night,  on  the  ground 
of  not  wishing  to  cause  Mrs.  Sidney  unnecessary  trouble,  the 
thunder  began  rumbling  restlessly  and  the  raindrops  seemed 
to  burn  here  and  there  as  they  fell. 

Ferdinand  took  the  cape  from  Agnes'  shoulders  when  they 
had  gone  to  their  room,  while  she  stood  looking  through  the 
window-pane  into  the  night.  After  he  had  laid  it  across  a 
chair  he  came  back  and  stood  beside  her,  putting  his  arm 
around  her  shoulders.  "  What  a  rest  it  is  to  get  home  again," 
he  said  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

They  stood  so  for  some  time,  each  pursuing  a  line  of 
thought. 

Presently  the  storm  increased,  drove  the  rain  fiercely 
against  the  window,  then  passed  on  into  the  north  on  the 
wings  of  the  bleak  and  melancholy  wind.  In  the  lull  they 
turned  instinctively  to  each  other. 

"  It  is  like  the  night  we  became  engaged — wind  all  night," 
said  Agnes.  Her  voice  was  low  and  anxious  as  she  continued, 
"  I've  been  remembering  and  thinking  how  beautiful  first  love 


THE    BALLINGTONS  339 

is.  There's  something  less  of  earth  in  it  than  in  what  comes 

after.  What  comes  after  is  deeper,  more  vital,  but " 

She  hesitated,  broke  off. 

After  a  moment  he  said,  with  some  constraint  in  his  voice, 
"  You  have  been  writing  all  summer,  Agnes,  that  there  were 
certain  things  which  we  could  no  longer  postpone  deciding. 
I  have  answered  you  that,  so  long  as  you  hold  your  present 
views,  further  discussion  between  us  on  these  disagreeable 
subjects  can  do  no  good.  I  will  tell  you  now,  however,  that 
upon  many  points  since  our  marriage  I  have  found  that  time 
and  natural  development  were  all  you  needed  to  open  your 
eyes  to  reason,  and  that  I  am  still  waiting  until  time  and 
experience  shall  have  convinced  you  of  my  wisdom  in  those 
respects  wherein  we  are  still  at  variance."  He  added  more 
slowly,  "  I  am  sorry  that  you  could  not  have  learned  from  our 
relations  in  the  past  to  trust  my  judgment  where  you  have 
had  no  experience."  He  paused  on  the  last  sentence,  and  then 
continued  with  the  methodical  patience  that  had  become  one 
of  his  mannerisms,  "  I  wished  to  spare  us  both  domestic  un 
pleasantness  and  the  gossip  of  the  town,  but  if  you  must  find 
out  everything  for  yourself,  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  do 
but  to  continue  to  wait." 

Agnes  told  herself,  while  Ferdinand  was  speaking,  that  the 
supreme  moment  had  come,  and  it  was  with  difficulty,  so  great 
was  her  perturbation,  that  she  kept  her  attention  upon  his 
words  and  followed  him  from  sentence  to  sentence,  consider 
ing  each  one  conscientiously  as  it  passed.  Unless  she  could 
succeed  in  reaching  Ferdinand's  sympathy,  and  through  that 
his  will,  the  things  she  most  dreaded  would  come  upon  her. 
As  an  ignorant  and  volatile  girl  she  had  allowed  her  father  to 
pass  his  last  days  without  care.  That  had  been  an  unwitting 
crime.  During  these  summer  days  at  her  old  home,  among 
his  books  and  papers,  her  renewed  grief  in  recalling  it  had 
expressed  itself  now  and  then  in  her  letters  to  Ferdinand.  He 
had  been  puzzled  by  these  stray  allusions  to  her  girlhood  and 
to  some  cause  which  she  had  for  remorse.  Now,  however, 
Agnes  was  realizing  the  second  and  bitterer  tragedy.  In  tak- 


340  THE     BALLINGTONS 

ing  up  her  duty  as  a  wife  she  must  be  prepared  to  give  up  for 
the  most  part  her  salaried  positions  and  be  content  to  see  her 
mother  in  age  again  uncomplainingly  take  up  the  burden 
that  would  have  staggered  her  in  her  prime.  Cleaving  to  her 
husband  meant  literally  forsaking  her  mother,  and  she  must 
forsake  the  second  parent  with  all  the  agony  of  full  knowl 
edge,  and  witness  the  inevitable  results.  Nor  was  this  all. 
She  must  impotently  see  her  children  misunderstood  and  made 
to  suffer  struggles  dangerous  to  their  intellectual  and  moral 
equilibrium. 

When  he  was  done  she  stood  still  for  a  moment,  grateful 
for  the  support  which  the  window  casement  unobtrusively 
gave  her.  Outwardly  she  was  calm,  but  in  her  heart  she  felt 
forlorn  and  weak.  Long  before  her  husband's  arrival  she 
had  arranged  logically  what  she  had  to  say  to  him.  It  had 
seemed  that  no  reasonable  mind  could  fail  to  be  convinced 
that  her  pleas  were  just.  Now,  however,  she  felt  her  confi 
dence  going;  nor  did  she  know  any  longer  where  to  begin  to 
answer  her  husband.  He  seemed  impregnable.  In  addition 
to  her  natural  reluctance  to  oppose  Ferdinand,  she  was  dis 
tressed  by  the  seeming  ungraciousness  of  pressing  such  a 
conversation  at  such  a  time.  They  were  both  weary  and  he 
was  just  back  after  a  long  absence  and  a  long  journey,  but 
she  knew  that  her  chances  of  winning  him  were  greater  at 
that  moment  than  they  could  be  again. 

"  Let  us  sit  down,  Ferdinand,"  she  said,  meeting  his  look 
with  a  half -frightened,  half -pleading  expression,  but  at  the 
same  time  she  motioned  him  to  a  chair  with  one  of  those  swift, 
firm  gestures  he  knew  and  had  once  admired.  "There  is  a 
good  deal  to  say,  and  it  must  be  said  now." 

"  If  you  insist  upon  further  talk,  had  we  not  better  defer 
it  till  we  reach  home  ?  "  asked  Ferdinand.  He  still  stood, 
although  Agnes  had  seated  herself  near  a  small  table  and  he 
could  see  by  her  clasped  hands  resting  upon  it  and  by  her 
dilated  eyes  that  she  was  making  ready  to  begin.  "  You  for 
get  how  late  it  is." 

She  unclasped  her  hands  and  drew  the  vacant  chair  nearer 


THE    BALLINGTONS  341 

her.  Her  husband's  reference  to.  their  home  accentuated  in 
her  mind  the  sense  of  fitness  she  already  had  felt  in  having 
such  a  conversation  take  place  in  a  hired  room,  a  place  of 
accommodation,  a  caravansary,  a  spot  around  which  no  man's 
memory  clung. 

"  Sit  down,  dear,  please,"  she  said.  "  I  know  you  are 
tired  and  I  am  sorry  to  keep  you,  but  it  will  be  better 
for  us  both." 

He  took  the  chair  in  resignation  and  waited  with  the  dim 
resentment  he  always  felt  when  he  knew  his  wife  was  going 
to  push  him  to  saying  in  plain  words  what  he  thought  and 
what  he  was  going  to  do.  He  realized  that,  baldly  stated,  his 
views  sounded  brutal.  It  was  dignified  to  say  that  a  father 
should  train  his  children  to  obedience,  that  a  husband  should 
protect  his  wife,  that  the  head  of  the  family  should  pay  all 
family  expenses ;  but  to  make  him  say  that  his  arbitrary  will 
about  the  children's  education  could  not  be  questioned,  that 
his  wife  must  ask  him  for  every  dollar  she  spent,  that  his  aunt 
who  had  brought  him  up  should  be  absolutely  dependent  on 
his  bounty,  and  that  no  consideration  could  change  his 
decision  on  these  points,  was  irritating.  He  was  not  to  blame 
that  nature  and  society  had  given  him  brains  and  made  him 
master  in  his  own  house.  He  resented  bitterly  Agnes' 
repeated  demands  for  explanations  and  reasons  that  ended 
ultimately  in  the  simple,  dogmatic  statement,  "I  do  so 
because  I  think  best,"  and  the  equally  simple  reply,  "  How  do 
you  know  what  is  best?" 

"Well?"  he  urged  as  she  did  not  begin.  "Let  us  be  as 
quick  as  possible  about  it." 

He  took  out  his  watch,  looked  at  it,  shook  it  a  little,  and 
held  it  to  his  ear. 

Agnes  rested  her  arms  upon  the  table  and  leaned  a  little 
toward  him,  speaking  in  a  gentle  tone  which  yet  somehow 
struck  Ferdinand  as  in  accord  with  the  renewed  ticking  of  his 
watch.  It  was  equally  exact,  dogged. 

"  Ferdinand,  I  intended  to  talk  about  only  those  few  points 
upon  which  we  must  think  and  act  alike  at  once  or  see  our 


342  THE    BALLINGTONS 

home  suffer.  But  I  see  I  can't  begin  on  those.  I  must  go 
back  to  our  relations  in  the  past." 

Ferdinand  stirred  and  was  about  to  speak,  but  she  checked 
him  instantly. 

"  You  make  it  necessary  for  me  to  go  back  when  you  say 
that  because  I  have  changed  since  I  married  you,  because, 
under  your  influence,  I  have  come  to  think  differently  from 
what  I  used  to,  that  therefore  I  ought  to  defer  to  your  judg 
ment  in  matters  where  I  am  still  unchanged."  As  she  con 
tinued,  the  pleading  in  her  eyes  crept  into  her  voice  and  her 
whole  attitude  underwent  a  subtle  change  from  reluctant 
determination  to  appeal.  "  I  know  I  was  ignorant  and 
bigoted  and  uncontrolled  when  you  married  me.  I  am  wiser 
now,  more  rational,  and  I  hope  that  I  can  control  myself  bet 
ter,  but  we  have  not  grown  together,  Ferdinand,  as  you  seem 
to  think.  We  have  grown  apart  and  the  distance  widens 
every  day.  You  must  see  this  fact  with  me,  and  help  me  to 
alter  it — if  it  can  be  altered,"  she  added  almost  under  her 
breath. 

Ferdinand  listened  to  her  without  changing  his  position. 
Into  his  face,  however,  a  watchful  alertness  was  coming. 

"  You  are  making  dangerous  statements,  Agnes,"  he  said 
quietly.  "  If  you  are  speaking  hastily,  I  would  advise  you  to 
reconsider." 

"  No,  I  am  not  speaking  hastily,  Ferdinand.  It  has  taken 
me  all  this  time  to  know  myself  and  trust  myself  to  speak. 
The  reason  I  have  not  done  it  earlier  is  because  I  have  been 
too  confused,  too  cowardly,  too  conscious  of  my  own  short 
comings  and  sins,  and,  besides  all  this,  because  I  have  loved 
you  and  clung  to  what  love  you  have  for  me,  dreading  to  lose 
what  was  left  of  it  by  angering  you."  She  dropped  her 
hands  from  the  table  to  her  lap,  where  they  fell  wearily  as  she 
added,  "  Yet  I  have  known  for  some  time  that  this  must  come, 
that  I  was  wronging  the  love  I  promised  you  by  putting  off 
talking  through  these  things  to  the  end." 

Ferdinand  waited  during  the  pause  that  followed  her  last 
words.  "What  is  it  you  feel  we  must  talk  through  to  the 


THE    BALLINGTONS  343 

end  ?  "  he  inquired  at  length,  wishing  to  get  it  over  as  soon  as 
possible. 

"  Ferdinand,  I  cannot  have  the  respect  you  think  I  owe  to 
your  general  view  of  life,  nor  can  I  acquiesce  in  the  way  you 
live  that  view.  Since  I  do  not  and  cannot  think  as  you  do, 
considering  the  parental  responsibilities  we  share  alike,  we 
must  arrive  at  a  working  compromise  between  your  theories 
and  mine." 

"  What  are  yours,  at  present  ?  "  asked  Ferdinand  in  the 
tone  of  endurance  that  he  had  persevered  in  since  his  wife 
began  talking. 

There  was  a  scarcely  perceptible  pause,  after  which  Agnes 
went  steadily  on. 

"  You  and  I  differ  primarily  in  our  attitude  toward  the 
rights  of  others.  This  would  not  matter  so  much  if  we  were 
not  both  under  responsibilities  to  the  same  people;  Estelle 
and  Stephen  first,  my  mother,  Aunt  Margaret." 

"  Since  when  have  Estelle  and  Stephen  developed  so  much 
individuality  ?  "  interrupted  Ferdinand  with  covert  satire. 
"What  philosopher  have  you  been  reading  this  week?  " 

Agnes  went  on  without  noticing  her  husband's  question. 

"I  think  we  should  recognize  that  the  children  have  indi 
vidual  rights.  I  think  we  should  not  be  arbitrary  in  our 
decisions.  I  think  they  should  be  treated  with  the  same  self- 
control  and  reasonableness  which  we  exercise  toward  our 
equals.  If  Estelle  is  frightened  in  the  future  as  she  has  been 
in  the  past  when  she  has  committed  some  little  fault,  she  will 
become  hysterical,  and  Stephen  sullen  and  sly."  A  note  of 
anguish  in  Agnes'  voice  marked  off  the  last  statement  from 
the  preceding  ones.  She  was  putting  an  almost  intolerable 
memory  into  words  as  she  continued,  "  I  can,  as  you  know, 
understand  from  my  own  experience  both  of  these  states  of 
mind.  It  required  all  my  mature  courage  and  will  to  extri 
cate  myself  from  the  sin  of  deceit.  How  can  I  expect  my 
little  boy  to  resist  it  when  you  put  an  equal  strain  upon  him  ? 
You  will  give  him  no  sympathy  yourself,  and,  if  I  do,  you  say 
I  am  training  him  to  disregard  you.  You  force  me  to  leave 


344  THE     BALLINGTONS 

him  without  it,  or  to  give  it  to  him  behind  your  back,  or  to  let 
the  children  see  that  we  disagree." 

Ferdinand  rose  and  stood  before  his  wife,  looking  down 
upon  her.  "  If  my  children  have  had  the  misfortune  to  inherit 
hysteria  and  slyness,"  he  said,  roused  to  the  short,  metallic 
voice  which  the  men  at  the  shops  dreaded,  "  I  do  not  intend 
that  it  shall  be  fostered  by  environment.  I  refuse  to  listen 
longer  to  your  womanish  whinings.  You  are  carrying  it  too 
far." 

Agnes,  too,  rose,  fighting  down  the  grief  and  despair  in  her 
heart.  Her  hand  rested  upon  the  table  with  the  knuckles 
pressing  hard  against  the  pine  boards. 

"  I  think,  too,  that  our  children  must  have  some  religious 
training,  Ferdinand.  I  had  it,  and,  if  your  mother  had  lived, 
you  would  have  had  it.  How  can  you  think  it  right  to  let  our 
children  grow  up  unguided  in  their  most  vital  development 
while  you  coerce  them  severely  in  other  respects.  I  do  not 
ask  that  they  receive  sectarian  instruction.  I  couldn't  give 
it  to  them  any  longer  if  I  would.  I  am  an  agnostic, 
as  you  profess  to  be."  The  last  phrase  caught  Ferdinand's 
attention  and  he  listened  unwillingly  as  she  went  on,  "  In 
reality  you  are  not  an  agnostic.  You  are  " — she  waited  a 
moment,  and  then  said  slowly,  as  though  the  words  hurt  her 
— "  a  materialist.  Your  mind  is  on  material  pleasures,  ma 
terial  duties,  above  all,  on  money,  and  what  money  can  buy. 
You  don't  ask  what  is  true,  first  of  all,  Ferdinand.  You  only 
talk  about  facts.  You  interpret  the  deepest  and  most 
spiritual  relations  of  life  by  the  hard  and  narrow  philosophy 
based  on  the  few  facts  that  you  will  see.  How  superficial 
and  false  that  philosophy  is  only  a  true  agnostic  could  tell 
you." 

Ferdinand  was  further  angered  by  this  nice  distinction  of 
terms  and  he  interrupted  her  cynically.  "  I  always  have  sup 
posed  that  the  agnostic  dealt  with  facts  as  opposed  to  windy 
theories,  but  perhaps  I  am  wrong  there  as  well  as  in  my  other 
views." 

Agnes  made  a  supplicating  gesture.     "Ferdinand,  don't 


THE    BALLINGTONS  345 

break  my  heart.  I  and  our  children  are  something  more  than 
mouths  to  feed,  bodies  to  clothe.  We  want  room  to  grow  in, 
we  want  a  husband  and  father  to  whom  we  can  go  with  those 
longings  that  are  farthest  out  of  sight  in  our  souls  because 
they  are  too  sacred  to  show  to  any  but  the  noblest  and  best. 
I  married  you  believing  that  the  outer  union  was  but  the  step 
to  that.  Did  you  never  feel  the  longing  to  get  away  from 
buying  and  selling,  and  live  " — she  made  a  hesitating  step 
or  two  nearer  to  him — "  with  me  and  our  children  in  love 
and  perfect  comprehension?  Doesn't  it  sometimes  come  into 
your  heart  to  give  yourself  to  me  as  you  never  have,  to  give 
up  to  something  stronger  than  desire?  We  all  have  some 
thing  back  of  passion  in  us.  We  have  a  deeper  instinct  to 
give  instead  of  get,  to  get  away  from  ourselves  to  something 
beyond  us.  Shall  we  never  love  each  other  so,  away  from 
ourselves?" 

Ferdinand  looked  at  her  as  she  spoke,  heard  the  voice  rise 
and  fall,  felt  the  old  subtle  glow  and  exaltation  stealing  over 
him.  A  faint  wish  to  yield  to  the  unknown  power  she  de 
scribed  passed  across  his  mind.  Then  he  scorned  his  weak 
ness.  He  picked  up  his  evening  coat  and  hat  and  moved 
toward  the  door  leading  into  the  adjoining  room.  "  It  is 
nearly  one  o'clock,"  he  said  when  he  reached  it. 

"  Will  you  say  nothing  more  than  that  to  me,  Ferdinand?  " 
Agnes  said  in  a  trembling  voice. 

Without  speaking  her  husband  entered  the  second  room, 
leaving  the  door  open.  The  room  was  dark  and  Agnes  lost 
sight  of  him  as  soon  as  he  passed  the  threshold. 

She  remained  where  she  was,  erect  and  motionless.  Then 
she  shivered,  reached  for  her  cape,  drew  it  around  her 
shoulders,  sank  into  the  straight  wooden  chair  by  the  table, 
and  clasped  her  hands  tightly  over  her  eyes.  She  had  done 
all  that  she  could,  and  had  lost. 

Presently  Ferdinand  appeared  again  in  the  doorway.  As 
she  heard  his  step  she  was  instantly  on  her  feet,  holding  the 
cloak  together  with  one  hand  at  the  throat.  Her  head  was 
poised  with  that  upward  lift  and  statuesque  stillness  hunters 


346  THE    BALLINGTONS 

are  familiar  with  in  wild  creatures  surprised  by  the  chase. 
Her  hair  was  pushed  back  from  her  face  like  a  boy's,  and  she 
looked  at  him  with  the  boy's  self -unconsciousness. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  Ferdinand,  startled. 

The  uncertainty  in  his  tone  flashed  a  last  hope  into  Agnes' 
brain.  She  caught  at  it  at  once.  She  had  failed  utterly  in 
telling  bare  facts  to  him.  She  had  meant  to  be  tactful.  In 
stead  of  that  she  had  antagonized  him — had  not  appealed  as 
she  might  have  done  to  those  emotions  which  she  had  felt  all 
the  evening  were  awake  in  him  after  their  long  separation. 

"  You  think  that  I  may  be  going,  Ferdinand.  You  realize, 
then,  that  I  might  be  driven  to  it.  You  can't  see  all  that 
hangs  on  your  decision  to-night,  however.  If  you  did,  you 
surely  would  answer  me  differently.  We  have  been  apart  for 
months  now.  Absence  has  made  this  meeting  like  a  beginning 
of  life  together.  We  have  made  mistakes  in  the  past.  We 
both  know  how  and  when.  We  never  shall  have  this  chance 
to  start  right  again.  If  we  go  wrong  now,  in  the  light  of 
past  experience,  it  never  can  be  rectified.  Something,  the 
rarest  and  noblest  in  us  both,  will  perish.  Give  me  freedom 
to  live  as  your  best  and  closest  friend.  Give  me  light  and  air. 
God  knows  I'm  not  begging  for  myself  so  much  as  I  am  for 
our  children.  How  can  I  be  a  mother  to  them  if  my  heart  is 
crushed  and  my  hope  and  faith  chained  like  slaves?  I  can't 
love  you  as  I  long  to,  past  the  injustice  that  threatens  to  push 
in  between  us.  You  don't  realize  this.  There  is  just  one 
way  for  a  man  and  woman  to  live  together  and  be  happy. 
They  must  trust  each  other  and  give  each  other  liberty.  Only 
so  can  marriage  be  anything  but  a  yoke  too  heavy  for  any 
but  the  best  and  the  worst  of  women  to  bear.  I  know  you 
will  see  this  some  time — I  believe  you  have  come  back  to  tell 
me  that  you  realize  it  now.  Our  first  imperfect  marriage  will 
be  but  a  dream  to  the  power  and  the  glory  of  this.  We  are 
two  souls,  two  wills.  Nothing  but  willing  union  can  make  us 
one.  Give  me  free  will.  Give  me  power  to  be  a  wife.  You 
have  come  for  that — you  cannot  have  come  for  anything 
else.  You  have  been  thinking  of  all  we  were  to  each  other 


THE     BALLINGTONS 

once,  and  of  all  that  absence  has  taught  us  we  may  be  to  each 
other  again  if — if  life  is  not  lost  on  us." 

Her  voice  caught,  almost  broke,  on  the  last  phrase.  She 
had  drawn  near  him,  step  by  step,  under  the  stress  of  pas 
sionate  pleading.  She  paused  after  every  sentence,  searching 
his  face  for  a  signal  of  encouragement,  and  when  it  did  not 
come  she  hurried  to  the  next,  as  though  fearing  he  would 
break  in. 

The  beseeching  in  her  voice  became  almost  unendurable  to 
Ferdinand,  and  when  she  paused  to  gain  control  of  her  emo 
tion  he  profited  by  the  opportunity  to  put  an  end  to  the 
painful  scene. 

"Let  us  spare  ourselves  any  further  conflict  on  these 
points,  Agnes.  You  yourself  are  my  best  argument  for 
refusing  your  own  request.  Whatever  sorrow  our  marriage 
has  caused  you  has  but  made  you  better  and  wiser  than  you 
would  have  been  without  it.  There  may  be,  as  you  say,  two 
souls  and  two  wills  in  man  and  wife.  I've  never  attempted  to 
deny  it.  All  I  have  contended  for,  and  still  insist  upon,  is  that 
the  husband  and  father  is  the  head  of  the  family.  I  shall  do 
my  best  to  be  conscientious  in  the  fulfillment  of  my  duties. 
I  am  sorry  we  cannot  see  things  alike,  but  I  have  enough 
faith  in  you  to  believe,  as  you  do,  that  we  yet  will.  Mean 
time,  I  must  request  you  to  give  up  all  expectation  of  a 
change  in  our  financial  and  domestic  arrangements." 

His  wife  looked  at  him  without  moving,  and  Ferdinand's 
eyes  wavered  from  hers  and  passed  almost  reluctantly  over 
the  somber  red  of  the  cloaked  figure.  Then  he  compelled 
himself  to  meet  again  her  gaze,  through  which  was  emerging 
a  great  obscure  force  which  he  dimly  knew  to  be  tragic.  An 
answering  impulse  flared  up  within  him,  defiant,  hostile.  It 
was  the  instinct  Fred  had  aroused  earlier  that  evening,  to 
crush,  if  need  be,  that  which  threatened  him  in  her. 

He  went  up  to  her,  put  down  the  half -protesting,  half- 
supplicating  arms,  bent  the  dark  head  forward  to  his  breast, 
and  held  it  there.  After  some  time  he  said,  "  Agnes,  this  is 
my  first  day  home.  Have  you  nothing  else  to  say  to  me  ?  " 


348  THE    BALLINGTONS 

She  raised  her  head,  drew  up  her  hands,  and  put  them 
against  his  breast,  pushing  him  back  a  little  so  that  they 
could  see  each  other.  He  found  himself  looking  into  two 
strange  eyes,  as  fathomless,  as  quiet,  as  the  night. 

"What?"  he  asked,  bending  his  head  as  though  she  had 
spoken. 

"Forsaking  father — and  mother — rich — or  poor — in  sick 
ness — and  in  health — till — death — us  do  part,"  she  said. 


PART  V 


CHAPTER   I 

''FHE  short  fall  was  followed  by  a  bitter  winter.  Old 
inhabitants  of  Winston  fell  into  a  reminiscent  strain 
about  a  winter  back  in  the  forties  when  the  water  had  frozen 
on  the  dinner  table  and  old  Silas  Ballington  had  lost  half  an 
ear  walking  from  his  kitchen  door  down  to  the  cow-barn. 

Ferdinand  had  put  a  new  furnace  into  his  home  and  specu 
lated  in  coal  early  in  the  winter.  He  made  enough  by  the 
latter  device  not  only  to  pay  for  his  heating  plant,  but  to 
present  Agnes  at  Christmas  time  with  a  set  of  sable  furs, 
Miss  Margaret  with  mink,  Estelle  with  a  coat  and  cap  of 
Thibet  lamb,  and  the  two-year-old  Stephen  with  a  long, 
straight  garment  and  cap  of  sealskin.  He  ordered  for  him 
self  at  the  same  time  an  otter  ulster  with  seal  trimmings  and 
cap.  When  he  presented  these  he  asked  Agnes  to  collect 
all  the  old  furs  of  the  family,  and  these  were  sent  for  later 
and  taken  away  by  the  town  furrier.  Improvements  were  also 
made  in  the  house. 

Agnes,  on  her  part,  had  started  in  their  new  life  together 
with  a  determination  to  make  a  persistent  effort  to  touch 
and  broaden  her  husband's  sympathies.  She  told  herself 
that  if  she  were  patient  enough  and  tactful  enough  she  must 
wear  away  his  resistance.  This  course  of  hers  was  so  quiet,  so 
free  from  feminine  heart-burnings  and  moods,  that  the  current 
of  their  home  life  moved  more  smoothly  than  it  ever  had  done 
before.  Superficial  vexations  there  were,  but  Agnes'  purpose 
in  life  now  moved  too  far  below  the  surface  to  be  disturbed 
by  any  but  profound  emotions. 

She  had  come  almost  to  believe  that  she  never  again  could 
feel  the  extremity  of  torture  to  which  she  formerly  had  been 
sensitive,  when  she  was  forced  to  experience  another  of  those 

349 


350  THE     BALLINGTONS 

shocks  which  seemed  to  threaten  the  springs  of  life.  It  hap 
pened  in  February  after  the  expiration  of  the  two-years' 
grace  granted  Mrs.  Sidney  to  redeem  her  home.  Agnes 
knew  that  some  weeks  before  Ferdinand  had  received  a  letter 
from  Mrs.  Sidney  explaining  that  the  winter  had  made  unex 
pected  demands  upon  her  purse,  offering  to  pay  him  a  part 
of  the  money,  and  asking  for  another  year  in  which  to  pay 
the  rest.  Dr.  Quinn  had  written  also,  corroborating  Mrs. 
Sidney's  statement,  and  adding  that  he  would  be  able  in  a 
year  to  buy  the  home  from  her,  and  that  at  the  same  time 
he  would  allow  her  life-residence  there.  Agnes  never  had 
been  able  to  get  a  frank  expression  from  Ferdinand  as  to 
what  he  intended  to  do  with  her  mother's  home.  She  knew 
that  he  had  not  answered  her  mother's  letter,  and  when  she 
saw  him  preparing  to  go  to  Kent  instead  of  writing  she  began 
to  worry.  She  aid  not,  however,  receive  any  satisfactory 
answer  to  her  questions,  and  it  was  not  till  Ferdinand's  return 
from  Kent  the  following  day  that  the  subject  was  plainly 
opened  between  them. 

He  spent  part  of  the  afternoon  at  his  office,  so  that  her 
anxiety  had  time  to  grow,  and  when  she  met  him  in  the  hall 
upon  his  arrival  it  was  with  great  apprehension  that  she 
asked  at  once,  "  Is  it  all  right — about  the  house,  Ferdi 
nand?  " 

He  put  away  his  cap  and  ulster  before  he  replied,  and  then 
said,  with  satisfaction  in  his  voice: 

"  Yes,  it  is  all  right.  Come  into  the  library  and  I  will 
tell  you." 

Agnes  followed  him  into  the  room  with  misgivings,  and 
although  he  offered  her  a  chair,  she  stood  waiting  for  him  to 
speak. 

"  I  have  been  able  to  do  better  for  your  mother  than  I 
expected,"  he  announced.  "  I  have  sold  the  house  for  two 
thousand  dollars  more  than  she  herself  asked  Dr.  Quinn 
for  it." 

Agnes  had  expected  that  if  Ferdinand  should  insist  upon 
selling  the  house  she  would  at  least  receive  warning  of  his 


THE     BALLINGTONS  351 

intention.  It  was,  therefore,  in  a  dazed  and  uncomprehend 
ing  voice  that  she  began  to  reply.  "  You  have  sold  the 
house?  But  Dr.  Quinn " 

Then  the  blood  rushed  into  her  face  and  she  did  not  finish 
her  sentence.  She  put  her  hand  on  the  back  of  the  chair 
and  steadied  herself  against  a  dizziness  that  came  over  her. 
The  utmost  that  she  had  allowed  herself  to  think  had  been 
cruelly  exceeded.  The  roof  had  been  sold  from  over  her 
mother's  head  in  winter  when  she  had  a  crippled  relative  to 
care  for.  Where  would  they  go?  To  Beatrice's,  to  Pleas- 
ant's,  to  the  little  farm  which  her  mother  always  had  held  in 
reserve,  but  which  was  unfit  for  a  home?  The  thought  that 
it  was  her  husband  who  was  filling  her  mother's  last  years 
with  needless  sorrow,  with  implacable  determination  piling 
burdens  upon  that  failing  but  still  cheerful  spirit,  while  she 
herself  could  neither  hinder  him  nor  help  her  mother,  came 
upon  her  with  full  weight  of  meaning.  She  tightened  her 
grip  of  her  chair,  refusing  to  credit  the  situation. 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  understand,  Ferdinand,"  she  said. 
"It  has  come  on  me  so  suddenly.  Do  you  really  mean  that 
you  have  sold  my  mother's  house — away  from  her?" 

"  For  two  thousand  dollars  more  than  she  herself  asked 
Dr.  Quinn,"  repeated  Ferdinand. 

The  expression  of  business  complacence  on  his  face  began 
to  be  qualified  by  something  else — a  subdued  but  grim  satis 
faction  at  having  requited  Quinn  for  the  slight  the  latter  had 
put  upon  him  in  refusing  his  patronage  of  the  doctor's  surgi 
cal  invention.  He  had  managed  his  mother-in-law's  business 
so  as  to  gain  two  thousand  dollars,  which  he  had  determined  to 
use  toward  her  support,  and  at  the  same  time  he  had  taught 
Quinn  the  lesson  that  poor  men  could  not  afford  to  be 
independent. 

Agnes  sat  down  and  began  to  sway  slightly  back  and  forth 
in  her  effort  to  control  herself. 

Ferdinand  feared  the  result  of  the  tumult  of  her  feelings, 
but  he  did  not  attempt  to  touch  her.  "Don't,  Agnes,"  he 
urged  gently.  "  This  transaction  means  at  least  two  years' 


352  THE     BALLINGTONS 

support  for  your  mother.  The  house  is  a  poor  investment, 
and  getting  worse  all  the  time.  She  is  well  rid  of  it.  She 
took  the  matter  reasonably,  as  you  do  not." 

As  he  spoke  Agnes  grew  quiet.  Her  eyes  wandered  away 
from  him  around  the  room  without  seeing  any  outward 
object.  She  was  calling  up  in  memory  the  little  house  in 
which  she  had  been  born,  and  in  which  her  father  had  died. 
She  saw  the  office  as  it  used  to  be,  open  on  a  spring  morning, 
with  flowers  where  her  father  had  placed  them  on  desk  and 
window-sill.  She  saw  the  grape-arbors  he  had  made,  the 
flower-beds  he  had  planned,  the  blue  myrtle-blossoms  in  the 
grass  about  the  steps.  Each  neat  and  well-kept  room  of  the 
house  passed  before  her  mind  as  though  in  farewell. 

Then  her  thoughts  returned  to  the  one  who  would  suffer 
most  in  leaving  that  home.  It  was  some  time  before  she 
could  trust  her  voice  to  ask,  "  What  did  my  mother  say  when 
you  told  her?" 

Ferdinand  was  relieved  at  the  question.  It  indicated 
returning  reasonableness.  "  She  took  it  very  sensibly,"  he 
said.  "  I  think  the  first  thing  she  did  was  to  ask  for  a 
month  in  which  to  move."  He  felt  that  his  mother-in-law's 
conduct,  whatever  may  have  been  her  lack  of  discipline  in  the 
past,  in  this  transaction  had  been  exemplary.  Like  any  fair- 
minded  person  she  had  refrained  from  foolish  complainings 
and  had  realized  the  validity  of  his  motives — at  least  she  had 
not  questioned  them.  He  went  on  considerately,  "  Of  course 
I  told  her  she  could  have  all  the  time  she  wanted." 

He  waited,  half  expecting  Agnes  to  come  to  herself. 

As  she  made  no  reply,  he  proceeded  to  explain  the  advan 
tages  of  the  arrangement.  "  It  isn't  only  the  money  I  was 
thinking  of  when  I  did  this.  You  see  it  really  relieves  your 
mother  in  many  ways.  Your  aunt's  own  relatives  will  be 
compelled  to  look  after  her  now,  a  thing  they  should  have 
done  long  ago  if  I  could  have  had  my  way.  I  am  going  to 
make  suitable  arrangements  for  your  mother  to  spend  the 
remainder  of  her  life  in  some  good  family,  and  I  intend  the 
two  thousand  dollars  to  go  toward  her  board.  She  won't 


THE     BALLINGTONS  353 

have  the  care  of  a  house,  and  she  will  be  looked  after  herself 
when  she  needs  it.  I  told  her  that  you  and  I  would  talk  that 
over  together.  I  want  to  please  you  in  the  place  we  select. 
Perhaps  the  Talbots  will  take  her,"  he  said  reflectively. 
"You  said  they  were  old  friends  of  both  your  parents." 

Agnes  looked  at  him  so  curiously  that  he  thought  she  was 
going  to  say  something,  but  she  did  not.  Instead  she  walked 
over  to  the  window  and  looked  out. 

He  occupied  a  little  time  straightening  up  some  papers  on 
the  table,  and,  as  she  still  did  not  speak,  he  turned  to  go  out 
into  the  hall. 

Instantly  her  voice  arrested  him. 

"  You  have  not  told  me  yet  to  whom  you  sold  my  father's 
house." 

Her  mind  had  leaped  forward  from  her  memories  of  the 
house  to  speculation  upon  its  future  possessor.  Who  was  there 
in  Kent  besides  Quinn  who  wanted  the  old  place,  and  wanted 
it  enough  to  pay  so  much  for  it? 

Ferdinand  turned  back  to  her.  "  It  is  a  man  who  has 
written  me  several  times  about  it.  His  name  is  Malthus.  He 
is  a  doctor." 

There  was  a  pause.  A  look  of  abhorrence  and  incredulity 
came  into  Agnes'  face.  The  name  Malthus  had  been  asso 
ciated  in  her  mind  all  her  life  with  everything  that  was  shame 
ful.  As  it  grew  upon  her  that  the  one  man  in  their  native 
place  whom  her  father  would  have  been  glad  to  disgrace  had 
gotten  possession  of  Dr.  Sidney's  office  and  home,  and  had 
done  this  expressly  because  it  was  Dr.  Sidney's  home  and 
would  cast  a  cloak  of  respectability  over  his  own  name,  all 
her  pride  and  self-control  were  merged  into  denial  of  the 
intolerable  truth. 

"  No !  No !  Ferdinand !  "  she  broke  out.  "  Please — not 
that!  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying.  Indeed  you 

can't  know.  A  good  doctor  can't I  can't  bear  it !  I  can't 

bear  it ! " 

She  went  up  to  him  and  seized  his  hands,  wringing  them 
as  she  stammered  on.  He  thought  as  he  looked  at  her  that 


354  THE    BALLINGTONS 

her  face  had  withered  and  grown  old,  while  the  eyes  vaguely 
alarmed  him. 

"  My  father's  life  was  spent  for  his  profession,"  she  said 
brokenly.  "All  Kent  will  tell  you  that — the  honor  of  the 
profession.  No  man  living  has  disgraced  it  more  than  Dr. 
Malthus  has.  My  mother  will  not  speak  to  him.  Ferdinand, 
I  cannot  live  to  see  him  go  into  my  father's  house." 

She  slid  down  to  his  feet  and  held  herself  there,  choking 
down  sentence  after  sentence  as  they  fought  for  expression. 
Ferdinand  was  thoroughly  disturbed,  and  tried  to  help  her 
up.  But  she  shook  herself  free  with  a  cry  of  anguish,  and 
then  lay  huddled  up,  absolutely  still. 

"We  all  know  your  father  was  honorable,  Agnes," 
Ferdinand  said  presently  in  a  voice  which  he  thought  was 
soothing.  "His  honor  hasn't  anything  to  do  with  the 
house." 

She  caught  her  breath,  but  did  not  look  up.  Then  she 
corrected  him  with  strained  emphasis.  "Two  thousand 
dollars'  worth ! "  she  said  laconically. 

After  a  moment's  silence  she  rose  to  a  half-sitting,  half- 
kneeling  posture,  and  continued,  "  Why  do  you  think  Dr. 
Malthus  was  willing  to  pay  so  much?  You  often  have  spoken 
slightingly  of  my  father  to  me.  Since  you  have  found  out 
that  his  name  is  worth  something  you  should  treat  it  with 
more  respect." 

Agnes'  words  struck  Ferdinand.  He  was  conscious  that 
he  did  think  more  highly  of  Dr.  Sidney,  and  he  was  vexed 
with  himself  for  not  having  paid  a  higher  tribute  to  his 
father-in-law's  memory  by  placing  an  additional  thousand 
or  two  value  upon  it.  As  he  looked  down  at  his  wife  he  saw 
that  her  mood  had  changed  and  that  he  had  lost  the  chance 
of  granting  her  appeal  since  she  would  not  renew  it.  The 
change  in  her  hardened  him  and  he  drew  away  from  her. 
Agnes  glanced  at  him,  and  then  turned  her  eyes  away  as  she 
rose  once  more  with  difficulty  to  her  feet. 

"  Ferdinand,"  she  said  a  moment  later,  distinctly,  "  I  see 
at  last  that  I  deserve  this.  I  have  made  a  mistake  that  is 


THE     BALLINGTONS  355 

now  irreparable.  Your  return  from  England  was  the  turn 
ing-point  in  my  life.  I  outraged  my  reason  when  I  went 
back  to  you.  You  have  taken  advantage  of  me,  as  you  have  of 
everyone  else,  every  time  you  have  had  me  in  your  power. 
You  were  glad  when  my  condition  made  me  give  up  my 
salaried  positions.  You  were  glad  to  gratify  your  resent 
ment  against  Dr.  Quinn  by  selling — my  father's — and — my 
mother's  house.  I  ought  to  have  left  you  when  you  came 
home  from  England.  I  lost  that  opportunity  also!  I  shall 
not  have  many  more  to  lose." 

She  ceased  speaking  for  a  moment,  then  wild  recklessness 
rushed  up  within  her.  "  Before  our  betrothal  you  led  my 
mother  and  me  to  think  you  other  than  you  were.  Since  our 
marriage  you  have  robbed  me.  If  you  had  not,  my  mother 
need  not  have  lost  her  home,  nor  would  we  be  at  your  mercy 
now." 

She  could  not  look  at  her  husband  after  she  had  spoken, 
but  turned  away  and  walked  with  difficulty,  as  if  she  were 
freezing,  out  into  the  hall.  She  had,  too,  the  instinct  of  the 
freezing  to  thaw  herself  out  with  the  cold.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  her  slow  hands  never  could  get  the  front  door  open  and 
let  in  the  air.  At  last  the  bolt  yielded  and  a  gust  of  wind 
brought  her  back  to  life.  It  stung  her  blood  into  action  and 
with  her  blood  her  shame.  She  waited  a  moment,  then  closed 
the  door  and  went  back  to  the  library. 

Ferdinand  was  standing  where  she  had  left  him,  with  that 
careful  absence  of  expression  in  his  face  which  accompanied 
unusual  emotion  in  him. 

She  approached  him  and  stood  looking  fixedly  at  him.  He 
did  not  move  nor  return  her  gaze.  They  stayed  so,  without 
speaking,  long  enough  for  a  woman  who  had  been  entering 
the  yard  when  Agnes  closed  the  door  to  come  up  the  front 
steps,  ring,  and  be  admitted. 

Neither  of  them  heard  her  enter  the  house  and  she  was 
opening  the  library  door,  when  Ferdinand  at  last  found  his 
voice  to  say,  "  Because  you  feel  it  so,  I  will  do  what  I  think  it 
unwise  to  do."  He  had  been  realizing  that  her  mental  state 


356  THE    BALLINGTONS 

might  react  disastrously  upon  his  wife's  physical  condition, 
and  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  say  the  most  generous  thing 
he  ever  had  said  to  her. 

He  was  interrupted  at  this  point  by  the  unceremonious 
opening  of  the  door,  and  some  inflamed  thing  seemed  pro 
jected  into  the  room.  He  saw  the  wind-reddened  face  of 
Beatrice. 

She  pulled  off  her  huge  gloves  and  flung  off  the  furs  in 
which  she  was  enveloped,  as  though  she  were  flinging  away 
all  restraint  with  them,  and  her  bold  beauty  took  on  inso 
lence  as  she  turned  towards  Ferdinand  and  began  to  speak. 

"  Your  friend  Malthus  up  in  Kent  says  your  papers  aren't 
signed  yet,  so  I've  come  down  here  to  strike  a  better  bargain 
with  you.  Aunt  Kate  never  would  let  me  buy  the  house, 
but  I  guess  you  will  if  I  pay  enough.  I  understand  you  are 
telling  around  that  you  are  selling  the  house  for  your  mother- 
in-law's  sake.  Now,  then,  I'll  pay  you  as  much  as  you  want 
to  ask  on  those  terms.  If  you  refuse,  you  prove  yourself  a 
lying  scoundrel." 

She  held  her  check-book  in  her  hand  and  was  looking 
over  the  table  for  a  pen.  As  she  picked  up  one  she  glanced 
over  her  shoulder  at  Agnes  and  said,  "Why,  in  Heaven's 

name,  do  you  live  with ?  "  She  made  a  motion  with  her 

hand  toward  Ferdinand  instead  of  speaking  his  name. 

Ferdinand's  face  hardened  at  the  insult.  He  was  keen 
enough  to  see  the  dilemma  in  which  Beatrice's  wit  had  placed 
him,  and  he  revolted  at  being  coerced  by  her.  There  was  a 
moment's  silence.  Then,  in  words  which  were  as  ominous 
to  himself  as  to  Agnes,  he  said,  "  The  house  is  sold." 

As  soon  as  he  had  spoken  he  attempted  to  pass  the  unbidden 
visitor  and  leave  the  room,  but  all  that  was  good  and  all  that 
was  bad  in  Mrs.  Fred  Sidney  was  aroused  now,  and  met  in 
her  hatred  of  Ferdinand.  Her  whimsical  but  staunch  love 
for  Mrs.  Sidney  had  become  a  passion  with  Beatrice.  "  In 
spite  of  you,  I'm  going  to  see  you  through,  Aunt  Kate,"  she 
had  repeatedly  declared,  and  General  Mott's  daughter  had  a 
free  hand  where  her  affections  were  touched.  She  had  come 


THE    BALLINGTONS  357 

to  Winston  with  the  determination  to  "  see  Mrs.  Sidney 
through."  Now,  as  she  looked  at  Ferdinand,  the  grudge 
which  she  with  difficulty  had  held  in  abeyance  swelled  into 
full  virulence  again.  She  was  not  only  Mrs.  Sidney's 
avenger,  but  her  own.  As  he  took  the  first  step  toward  the 
hallway  she  divined  his  intention  to  escape,  and  to  thwart 
it  she  sprang  into  the  open  space  between  him  and  the  door. 

Agnes  was  too  appalled  at  what  followed  to  comprehend 
what  Beatrice  said.  A  confused  reminiscence  went  through 
her  mind  of  things  she  had  heard  about  General  Mott's 
blasphemy  when  he  lost  his  temper.  It  must  have  been  from 
the  father  that  the  daughter  had  learned  the  copious  vocab 
ulary  she  was  using  with  more  than  masculine  dexterity. 
Insults  and  vituperations  fell  like  a  whip  of  scorpions  upon 
her  husband,  and  Agnes  watched  with  dazed  horror  the  effect 
upon  him.  His  face  changed  and  took  on  an  expression  of 
fury  and  violence  such  as  she  never  had  seen. 

Beatrice,  too,  caught  it.  An  exultation  in  her  power 
urged  her  to  a  still  more  daring  outburst.  "  Now  that  you've 
done  your  best  to  leave  your  mother-in-law  without  a  roof 
over  her  head,"  she  said,  backing  toward  the  hall,  "  Agnes 
will  realize  that  she's  married  a  pawn-broker.  You  specu 
lator  in  other  people's  goods !  Put  up  the  three  balls  over 
your  front-door!  I've  heard  you  talk  about  my  father,  but 
I've  heard  him  talk  about  you.  He  spent  his  money  where 
you  make  your  profit.  You're  not  fit  for  a  decent  woman  to 
live  with,  and  if  your  wife  hasn't  found  it  out  yet  I'll  open 
her  eyes ! " 

She  was  out  in  the  hall  as  she  finished.  There  she  turned 
to  Agnes  and  cried  discordantly,  "  Come  to  us,  Agnes ! 
You've  got  to  go  somewhere  soon  enough.  Then  your  mother 
will  come,  too." 

She  reached  the  door,  flung  it  open,  and  went  out,  drawing 
it  to  with  a  jar  behind  her. 

A  moment  later  it  was  violently  thrown  open,  and  she 
stood  once  more  on  the  threshold. 

"  Ferdinand ! "  she  cried. 


358  THE     BALLINGTONS 

His  face  was  livid  as  he  strode  toward  her.  He  reached 
the  door  and  was  forcing  it  shut  on  her. 

"  I  forbid  you  to  set  foot  in  our  house  again,  and  every 
one  shall  know  that  I've  done  it.  I  hope  I  may  never  see  you 
again  " — she  braced  herself  and  grew  purple  in  the  face — 
"till  I  see  you  in  Hell!" 

She  withdrew  suddenly,  and  the  door  shut,  almost  dislocat 
ing  Ferdinand's  shoulder  with  the  shock.  Agnes  shrank 
back,  thinking  that  Beatrice  must  be  injured. 

But  the  next  moment  they  heard  her  voice,  as  she  went 
down  the  steps  outside,  singing  out  of  tune. 

Ferdinand  did  not  look  at  Agnes  as  he  turned  away  from 
the  door  and  went  upstairs  to  his  room. 

She  returned  to  the  library,  and  sank  into  a  chair,  her  mind 
dizzied  by  the  license  and  blasphemy  of  Beatrice's  outburst. 
A  fright  for  Fred  took  possession  of  her.  In  this  case, 
Beatrice's  passion  had  been  generous  in  its  origin,  but  its 
excess  appalled  her.  Should  her  evil  passions  be  roused  and 
the  cause  her  own,  nothing  could  stay  her  from  plunging 
herself  and  all  she  controlled  to  ruin.  At  that  moment 
Agnes  could  hardly  tell  which  seemed  more  terrible  to  her, 
the  relentlessness  of  Ferdinand  or  the  lawlessness  of  Beatrice. 

Presently  she  heard  her  husband  coming  downstairs  again, 
and  rose  with  a  sickening  heart  to  meet  him;  but  he  did  not 
glance  at  her  as  he  took  his  hat  and  went  to  the  door.  She 
noticed  that  he  had  written  a  telegram  and  was  going  out  to 
send  it,  and  the  bitterest  moment  of  her  life  accompanied  the 
realization  that  the  last  hope  of  saving  her  father's  house 
was  gone. 


CHAPTER  II 

"C^ERDINAND'S  manner  to  Agnes  was  oddly  guarded  and 
taciturn  during  the  days  following  his  announcement  of 
the  sale  of  her  mother's  home.  He  never  once  referred  to 
Beatrice's  intervention,  but  a  week  later  when  Agnes  told 
him  she  was  going  up  to  Kent  to  help  her  mother  pack  her 
things,  although  he  did  not  demur  to  the  visit,  he  concluded 
a  long  series  of  instructions  about  protecting  herself  from 
the  cold  by  saying  briefly,  "  You  understand,  of  course,  that 
there  is  to  be  no  more  intercourse  between  us  and  your 
cousin's  family." 

There  was  no  one  to  meet  Agnes  at  the  station,  for  her 
coming  was  unexpected,  and  she  walked  alone  through  the 
familiar  streets  of  Kent  to  the  home  which  was  her  mother's 
no  longer. 

When  she  reached  it  she  stood  still,  looking  at  it  for  some 
moments,  the  only  figure  in  the  quiet  street,  too  pro 
foundly  stirred  to  trust  herself  to  enter.  The  day  was 
very  still  and  everything  seemed  motionless  except  the  feath 
ered  flakes  of  snow  which  wavered  down  and  poised  irreso 
lutely  as  if  loath  to  add  their  ethereal  weight  to  the  already- 
laden  trees  and  buildings.  Drifts  of  snow  buttressed  the 
Sidney  homestead,  cut  through  by  exact  and  clean  paths  from 
the  street  to  the  office  door  and  to  the  front  door.  Evergreen 
trees  had  been  cut  and  placed  against  the  house  as  usual  as 
a  protection  against  the  cold,  but  little  of  the  green  could 
be  seen  beneath  loads  of  snow  and  the  crystal  ice-casings 
which  imprisoned  what  the  snow  could  not,  and  which  hung 
in  transparent  pendants  from  the  tip  of  every  bough  and 
spine.  The  house  itself  was  hooded  with  a  mass  of  white 
whose  purity  and  beauty  would  have  seemed  a  gentle  covering 
had  it  not  been  for  the  fringe  of  ice  which  hung  in  carved 
tracery  from  the  eaves  down  to  the  chamber  windows.  Not 

359 


360  THE    BALLINGTONS 

a  living  thing  was  in  sight.  The  only  flowers  and  shrubs 
now  to  be  seen  through  the  office  windows  were  white  and  deli 
cate  fronds  in  frost.  The  whole  scene,  beautiful  and  silent 
as  it  was,  to  Agnes  was  a  scene  of  death — but  death  freed 
from  decay,  arrested  life. 

At  last  she  went  up  the  steps  to  the  office  door  and  entered. 
Dr.  Quinn  was  not  in,  but  the  slate  on  his  open  desk  announced 
his  whereabouts  and  time  of  return.  Agnes  walked  through 
the  two  offices  and  the  sitting-room  into  the  downstairs  bed 
room,  where  she  found  her  mother  hard  at  work,  while  Aunt 
Mattie,  propped  up  in  a  rocking  chair,  was  watching  her. 
Mrs.  Sidney  was  leaning  over  a  half-filled  wooden  box, 
rearranging  its  contents  to  better  advantage.  She  turned  at 
the  sound  of  footsteps,  and  then  at  sight  of  Agnes,  exclaimed 
a  welcome  which  her  daughter  instantly  interpreted  as  an 
expression  of  relief  as  well  as  of  greeting.  The  involuntary 
tone  told  Agnes  that  her  mother  had  been  suffering  for  her, 
and  that  she  was  comforted  to  see  her  daughter  well  and  self- 
controlled. 

Agnes  went  up  to  the  kneeling  figure,  took  Mrs.  Sidney's 
face  between  her  hands,  looked  into  the  clear  old  eyes,  and 
then  kissed  her  mother  silently.  Then  she  turned  with  a 
word  or  two  of  tenderness  to  Aunt  Mattie. 

Mrs.  Sidney  began  to  explain  in  a  cheerful  voice  just  how 
and  where  she  was  going  to  move  her  household  goods.  Agnes 
entered  into  the  preparations  without  comment,  sorted  the 
well-remembered  chest  of  linen,  and  packed  it  with  the  ample 
supply  of  blankets  and  patchwork  quilts  that  bespoke  her 
mother's  New  England  thrift.  Mrs.  Sidney  praised  her  com 
mon  sense  in  not  mourning  over  what  could  not  be  helped,  with 
many  fine  old  Biblical  phrases,  and  with  the  allusion  to  Job's 
troubles  and  their  happy  period  that  has  helped  many  saints 
in  sore  distress  to  keep  their  courage  and  their  faith  un 
broken. 

Aunt  Mattie  was  clearly  living  upon  a  lower  level,  for  she 
was  heard  to  let  fall  these  words  after  Mrs.  Sidney's  fervent 
epitome  of  the  patriarch's  story :  "  I  suppose  Job  never 


THE    BALLINGTONS  361 

mourned  over  his  dead  sons  and  daughters.  He  was  per 
fectly  satisfied  with  the  new  ones  the  Lord  gave  him.  I'd  be 
just  as  fond  of  those  old  patriarchs  if  they  hadn't  been  so 
easily  comforted  with  new  wives,  too.  His  old  wife  was  a  good 
woman." 

Mrs.  Sidney  warned  her  sister-in-law  of  heresy,  but  in  a 
more  indulgent  way  than  was  her  wont.  Aunt  Mattie  was 
not  to  be  judged  like  other  people. 

"  Why  do  you  hurry  so  with  the  packing,  mother?  "  asked 
Agnes  late  in  the  afternoon,  as  they  were  finishing  their 
task. 

"  I  want  to  be  on  my  own  property,"  replied  her  mother 
decisively.  "  I  shan't  be  contented  till  I  get  on  Stephen's 
farm."  Then  she  laid  her  hand  for  a  moment  on  Agnes' 
shoulder  and  added  gravely,  "  I'm  glad  Stephen  doesn't  have 
to  bear  this.  These  things  don't  mean  so  much  to  me.  Did 
you  ever  notice,  Agnes,  that  the  Lord  never  sends  trials  to 
anyone  who  can't  stand  them?  " 

"  There  was  a  man  who  taught  his  horse  to  eat  sawdust," 
soliloquized  Aunt  Mattie,  "  and  just  when  the  beast  had 
learned,  he  died." 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid  of  dying  yet,  Mattie,"  replied  Mrs. 
Sidney.  "  Now,  Agnes,  we  will  go  into  the  parlor  and  rest 
awhile  before  I  get  supper.  Quinn  has  insisted  upon  running 
a  big  fire  while  I've  been  packing  and  it's  nice  and  warm  in 
there." 

They  moved  in  Aunt  Mattie  in  her  chair,  and  after  they 
were  comfortably  seated  Mrs.  Sidney  took  up  some  sewing 
while  she  continued  to  controvert  her  sister-in-law's  danger 
ous  skepticism.  Agnes  noted  her  aunt's  quizzical  gray  eyes, 
and  suspected  that  there  was  a  kindly  motive  for  her  policy. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Sidney  dropped  her  sewing  in  her  lap  and 
pointed  to  the  window.  "  There  comes  Beatrice !  and,  yes, 
that's  Thomas  Ballington  with  her  again.  Run  to  the  door 
and  call  them  in.  I  want  to  see  those  two  together." 

Agnes  rose  instinctively,  but  hesitated,  and  just  then  the 
sleigh,  with  its  tufted  horses  and  Cossack-looking  driver, 


362  THE    BALLINGTONS 

turned  toward  the  house.  In  its  simple  seat,  a  snug  nest  of 
furs,  were  Tom  and  Beatrice,  ruddy  with  the  cold.  As  they 
passed  the  house  Beatrice  swung  back  behind  Tom,  strain 
ing  her  eyes  to  look  into  Mrs.  Sidney's  windows.  Mrs.  Sidney 
promptly  answered  the  look  with  a  vigorous  gesticulation 
summoning  Beatrice  to  turn  back  and  come  in.  Agnes  saw 
Beatrice  lean  forward  to  speak  to  the  driver,  and  then  the 
horses  turned  and  came  to  a  standstill. 

Agnes  exchanged  a  glance  with  Mrs.  Sidney,  who  spoke 
at  once.  "  You  needn't  think  to  stop  me,  Agnes.  The  Bible 
says  that  after  you've  taken  your  friend  by  himself  in  vain, 
to  call  in  another.  Thomas  Ballington  is  the  one  to  call  in." 

She  hurried  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  called  out  just  in 
time  to  prevent  the  driver  from  starting  on  again  with  Tom : 
"  Thomas  Ballington,  don't  go  away !  I  want  you  to  come  in 
here,  too." 

Beatrice  laughed  back  at  Tom  over  her  shoulder.  "  Come 
along,  Tom.  Face  the  music."  Then  she  ran  up  the  steps 
and  enveloped  Mrs.  Sidney  in  her  furs.  "  Here  he  is,  Aunt 
Kate ! "  she  announced  a  moment  later  as  Tom  entered, 
closing  the  door  behind  him  with  sullen  civility. 

Beatrice  pushed  open  the  parlor  door  which  Mrs.  Sidney 
had  closed  to  keep  out  the  cold.  Agnes  rose  to  meet  her  with 
the  memory  of  the  scene  when  they  had  last  parted  in  her 
mind.  But  Beatrice  came  in  buoyantly,  pulling  off  her  cap, 
"  to  cool  her  head,"  she  said.  Her  face,  which  had  been  con 
torted  with  passion  the  last  time  Agnes  saw  it,  was  now  good- 
humored  and  laughing.  Her  eyes  were  bright,  her  hair, 
roughened  and  matted  by  the  cap,  was  damp  and  glossy  about 
her  face.  "  Hello,  dear ! "  she  cried  heartily  to  Agnes. 
"  Hello,  Aunt  Mattie ! "  And  then  she  turned  back  again  to 
Mrs.  Sidney. 

"  Sit  down,  Beatrice,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney,  taking  off  her 
glasses  and  wiping  them.  "  Sit  down  on  that  cane  chair, 
Thomas  Ballington.  I  have  called  you  both  in  here,  Beatrice, 
to  talk  to  you  from  the  Lord.  You  are  my  niece  and  you 
know  well  that  I  love  you,  but  that  shan't  hinder  me  from 


THE     BALLINGTONS  363 

telling  you  that  you  are  behaving  like  a  lost  woman.  I  don't 
say  you  are  such  or  that  you  intend  to  be.  But  your  ways 
are  evil.  You  are  young  and  gay  and  headstrong,  and  I 
think  you  don't  know  the  end  of  the  course  you've  entered 
on.  You've  got  money  and  good  looks  and  health,  but  these 
aren't  going  to  last  always.  They  are  bound  to  go,  and  what 
then?  " 

Beatrice  smiled  at  Mrs.  Sidney,  at  Tom,  at  Agnes,  at 
Aunt  Mattie,  who  had  succeeded  in  getting  out  of  her  chair 
alone  and  now  hobbled  painfully  out  of  the  room — but  said 
nothing. 

"  What  then  ?  "  repeated  Mrs.  Sidney  sternly. 

"  Why,  then  I  suppose  I'll  grow  old,  Aunt  Kate,"  replied 
Beatrice,  supporting  her  elbow  on  her  knee,  her  chm  on  her 
hand,  and  returning  her  accuser's  gaze  with  one  of  impreg 
nable  cheerfulness. 

"And  what  then?" 

"  Then  ?  "  Beatrice  gave  a  shrug  as  though  apologizing 
for  being  forced  to  introduce  an  unpleasing  vision.  "  Well, 
humanly  speaking,  I'll  die." 

"  And  what  then,"  finished  Mrs.  Sidney  in  stentorian  tones. 

"  Why,  after  that "  Beatrice  hesitated,  but  she  was 

determined  to  carry  this  through  with  spirit.  Accordingly 
she  winked  at  Tom.  The  temptation  was  too  much  for  her. 
"  After  that,  Aunt  Kate,  I  expect  to  work,  to  shovel  coal  for 
a  living." 

Beatrice's  sides  were  shaking  as  she  made  the  answer,  but 
this  time  she  had  miscalculated  upon  that  sense  of  humor 
which  was  one  of  the  enduring  links  between  Mrs.  Sidney  and 
herself.  The  old  lady's  face  clearly  showed  her  disapproval 
and  grief  at  the  stale  and  ill-timed  flippancy. 

"  You  are  grieving  God's  Holy  Spirit,  Beatrice,"  she  said 
warningly ;  "  you  are  laughing  at  the  eternal  ruin  of  a  soul. 
You  wouldn't  have  talked  this  way  two  years  ago.  You  are 
getting  callous.  But  there  is  worse  to  follow.  Think  of  the 
rich  man  lifting  up  his  eyes  to  Lazarus." 

"  I'd  never  be  as  bad  off  as  that  man,  Aunt  Kate,"  said 


364  THE     BALLINGTONS 

Beatrice,  reaching  over  to  lay  her  hand  reassuringly  on  Mrs. 
Sidney's  knee. 

"  Why  not?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Sidney  involuntarily. 

"  Because  I'd  look  up  and  see  you  in  Abraham's  bosom. 
You  wouldn't  go  back  on  an  old  friend  who  had  seen  better 
days.  You'd  get  that  drop  of  water  down  to  me.  Don't  I 
know  you  would,  bless  your  heart !  " 

The  genuine  love  that  rang  through  the  reckless  speech 
strengthened  Mrs.  Sidney's  purpose.  She  turned  to  Tom. 

"  Thomas  Ballington,  I  want  you  to  give  me  your  word  of 
honor  that  you  will  use  your  influence  with  Beatrice  to  go 
back  to  her  husband  and  home." 

"  She's  never  left  her  home,"  sulked  Tom,  crimson  with 
humiliation  and  eying  the  floor.  "Besides,  I  haven't  any 
influence,  if  she  had." 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  use  any  more  than  you  have,"  returned 
Mrs.  Sidney  directly.  "  You  can  get  a  good  deal  more  by 
keeping  away  from  Kent  and  going  to  work.  You  are  a  mill 
stone  about  your  brother's  neck,  young  man — an  idler  in  a 
world  that  is  going  wrong  for  lack  of  workers." 

"  I  have  my  work,"  said  Tom,  choking  down  his  anger. 

"  What  is  your  work  then  ?    What  have  you  done  to-day  ?  " 

The  questions  impaled  the  young  man  promptly,  and  he 
squirmed  in  silence. 

"Thomas  Ballington,  what  have  you  done  to-day?"  re 
peated  Mrs.  Sidney. 

"  Tom  played  a  game  of ' 

"  I'm  not  speaking  to  you,  Beatrice." 

"  I  know  you're  not,  Aunt  Kate.  But  I  see  Tom  has  a 
dumb  devil,  and  it  isn't  polite  for  you  not  to  be  answered. 
Tom  played  a  game  of  checkers  with  me  this  morning,  and 
wrote  some  letters  this  afternoon." 

"  Played  a  game  of  checkers !  Wrote  some  letters !  And 
you  call  that  work.  That's  just  punctuating  idleness." 

Beatrice  burst  into  appreciative  laughter  at  the  words. 
Mrs.  Sidney  turned  to  her  instantly,  holding  up  her  hand. 

"  Don't,  Beatrice !  " 


THE     BALLINGTONS  365 

The  old  lady's  voice  had  a  ring  of  pain  that  subdued  her 
guest's  levity.  She  continued  in  a  lower  tone. 

"  Beatrice,  I'm  not  the  only  one  who  is  noticing  you,  even 
if  I  am  the  only  one  who  yearns  over  you  enough  to  face  you 
in  your  iniquity.  You  are  demoralizing  this  town.  Many 
things  that  are  going  on  now  and  are  winked  at  by  good 
society  would  not  have  been  tolerated  ten  years  ago.  You 
are  a  rich  woman  and  a  leader.  The  young  people  look  to  you 
for  all  the  latest  fashions  in  clothes  and  manners.  You  give 
liberally  to  the  fashionable  church,  and,  I  will  say,  that  you 
give  liberally  everywhere  else,  too.  The  point  is  that  you've 
a  good  deal  of  influence  and  that  you're  using  it  to  tear  down 
safeguards  that  are  already  too  weak  to  keep  idle  people  out 
of  mischief.  You  ought  to  be  an  example  and  a  help  to  the 
hard-working  and  self-denying.  Instead  of  that  you  make 
life  harder  for  them  by  scoffing  at  their  old-fashioned  virtues. 
Such  people  as  you  will  be  the  ruin  of  this  country  if  you 
can't  be  brought  to  your  senses.  You  will  destroy  public 
morality.  Besides,  Beatrice,  there  is  only  one  end  to  all  this. 
You're  not  the  kind  to  stop  in  time.  Some  day  you  will  find 
yourself  an  outcast." 

"  Not  as  long  as  I  give  good  dinners  and  theater  parties, 
Aunt  Kate.  There  are  just  two  people  in  Kent  whose  good 
will  can't  be  bought.  Those  two  are  you  and  me.  We  are  a 
good  deal  alike,  after  all.  The  only  difference  is,  you  are 
good  and  I  am  bad." 

"  It  isn't  your  money  that  keeps  good  people's  doors  open 
to  you.  It's  Fred  Sidney's  name.  It's  an  honorable  name." 

"  Well,  three  cheers  for  Fred  Sidney !  I've  told  you  a 
million  times  I've  no  grudge  against  Fred,  Aunt  Kate." 

Then  Beatrice  sat  up  in  her  chair  and  squared  her 
shoulders.  "  But  see  here !  Who  gave  me  my  money  and 
position  in  the  first  place?  My  General.  We  all  know  he 
wasn't  any  saint,  but  he  was  an  easy  man  to  live  with.  He 
lived  the  way  he  wanted  to,  and  didn't  lie  about  it.  He  wanted 
everybody  else  to  have  a  good  time,  too.  He  left  me  all  the 
money  there  is  in  our  family.  When  I  married  Fred  I  ex- 


366  THE     BALLINGTONS 

pccted  him  to  let  me  provide  for  him.  If  he'd  had  the  money 
he'd  have  thought  it  all  right  to  provide  for  me  and  he'd  have 
been  mad  enough  if  I'd  insisted  on  keeping  a  kindergarten 
to  earn  my  own  clothes.  But  there  he  sticks  in  that  bank, 
an  underpaid  clerk!  He  won't  take  a  cent  from  me.  We 
can't  go  off  anywhere  together  except  for  two  weeks  in  sum 
mer,  when  it's  so  hot  we'd  shrivel  up  on  the  way.  I  have  to 
go  round  alone.  I'd  h'ke  nothing  better  than  taking  Fred 
with  me,  but  he  can't  leave.  If  there  was  any  sense  in  it,  it 
would  be  a  different  matter.  But  it's  nothing  but  his  pica 
yune  pride.  He's  tying  us  both  down  here  to  satisfy  that. 
My  father  never  expected  it,  and  I  didn't  expect  it.  Now, 
then,  since  I  must  stay  here,  I'm  going  to  get  as  much 
pleasure  out  of  this  place  as  is  to  be  gotten,  and  if  he  doesn't 
like  it,  he  knows  how  he  can  stop  it." 

Mrs.  Sidney  was  about  to  rejoin  when  Beatrice  cut  her  off. 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  I've  had  to  bear.  I've  lost  all 
my  moral  sense  lying  about  things  in  order  to  take  care  of  him 
properly.  Just  last  week  I  wanted  to  get  him  an  overcoat. 
He  ought  to  have  furs.  He  wouldn't  take  them.  Then  I 
forgot  myself.  There  were  some  hot-house  berries  on  the 
table  and  I  told  him  he  might  just  as  well  take  the  coat  as 
to  be  eating  those.  He  never  ate  another  one.  Since  then 
he  has  taken  his  luncheon  downtown  at  that  miserable  temper 
ance  eating-house  which  can't  nourish  its  rats — and  he 
starves  himself  when  he's  at  home."  Her  voice  softened,  she 
paused,  then  finished,  "  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings, 
Aunt  Kate,  and  I'm  going  to  leave  this  minute.  Come  along, 
Tom!" 

She  caught  up  her  cap  and  gloves  and  put  them  on  swiftly. 
She  wanted  to  kiss  Mrs.  Sidney  good-by,  but  she  knew  it 
was  wiser  not  to  delay,  and  she  was  already  at  the  door,  when 
Mrs.  Sidney's  voice  held  her. 

Beatrice's  revelations  had  indeed  made  their  impression 
upon  her  aunt,  but  Mrs.  Sidney  was  not  to  be  put  off  from 
the  main  point  under  discussion. 

"  Beatrice  Sidney,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Sidney,  rising  and  ap- 


THE    BALLINGTONS  367 

preaching  her,  "  if  you  were  my  daughter,  I  should  put  you 
in  a  house  of  correction." 

"  So  you  would,  Aunt  .Kate,"  Beatrice  called  back.  "  You're 
the  very  salt  of  the  earth,  but  the  Lord  knew  who  was  best 
for  my  mother.  We  mustn't  rebel.  For  my  part,  I  don't  see 
why  you  shouldn't  be  satisfied  with  Agnes." 

Tom  strode  after  her  with  a  black  face.  The  two  went  out 
of  the  front  door,  and  soon  there  was  a  jingle  of  bells  as  the 
sleigh  drove  away. 

Mrs.  Sidney  went  back  to  her  sewing  with  a  look  of  dis 
tress  which  pierced  Agnes'  heart. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  going  over  and  kneeling  by  her 
mother's  chair,  while  she  held  the  busy  fingers  still  a  moment, 
"  do  not  bear  too  many  burdens.  Nobody  can  direct  Beatrice." 

"  If  I'd  said  the  right  words,  Agnes,"  her  mother  re 
sponded  sorrowfully,  "  I  could  have  reached  her.  She  has  a 
good  heart,  but  I  don't  know  how.  Stephen  always  did." 

Agnes  leaned  her  face  against  her  mother's  shoulder  to 
hide  the  tears  which  she  could  no  longer  keep  back.  She  con 
trolled  her  voice  carefully,  however,  as  she  replied  gently, 
"  You  have  more  influence  over  Beatrice  than  anybody  else 
has,  mamma.  I  realize  that  every  time  she  and  I  talk  together. 
If  it  had  been  possible  to  influence  her,  you  could  have  done  it. 
She  appreciated  that  it  was  hard  for  you  to  say  what  you 
did,  and  honored  you  for  it.  She  knows  you  love  her,  but 
there's  something  underneath  in  Beatrice's  nature  that  even 
you  can't  deal  with.  She  is  just  as  impregnable  in  her  way  as 
Ferdinand  is  in  his." 

Agnes  was  thinking  as  she  spoke  of  the  scene  when  Beatrice 
was  last  in  Winston,  of  those  few  moments  of  unbridled 
passion  when  both  she  and  Ferdinand  had  dropped  every 
pretense  and  faced  each  other,  each  self-absorbed,  irrecon 
cilable,  with  invincible  defiance.  Again  Agnes  recalled  with 
curious  wonder  that  it  had  been  Ferdinand  whose  defiance  had 
been  tinged  with  fear,  and  she  felt  instinctively  that  Beatrice 
was  somebody  whom  even  Ferdinand  could  not  manage. 
This  accounted  to  her  now  for  Fred's  passivity  in  dealing 


368  THE     BALLINGTONS 

with  his  wife  and  for  his  own  set  refusals  to  yield  to  her.  He, 
too,  had  hardened  in  his  course,  giving  up  the  hope  of 
influencing  her,  and  she  had  given  up  persuading  him. 

Agnes  stayed  over  another  day  with  her  mother,  and  then 
with  a  heavy  heart  left  for  home.  She  felt  that  it  was  her 
last  visit  to  her  old  home,  that  she  never  would  enter  it  again. 
Her  mother's  persistent  cheerfulness  was  almost  more  than 
she  could  bear  when  Mrs.  Sidney  called  after  her  as  she  went 
down  the  walk  to  the  gate,  "  In  the  summer  we'll  have  you  all 
out  to  the  farm.  You  tell  Estelle  and  Stephen  they  shall 
have  pigs  and  chickens  and  all  the  pets  they  want.  It's  a 
shame  for  children  not  to  have  pets !  You  can  play  the  little 
organ  in  the  country  church  there,  too.  Your  grandmother 
used  to  sing  there.  How  glad  old  Mr.  Jewell  will  be !  You 
are  bringing  up  your  children  to  keep  the  Sabbath,  aren't 
you  ?  " 

"  I'm  trying  to." 

"  That's  right.  Blessed  is  the  man  that  keepeth  the  Sab 
bath  from  polluting  it." 

Agnes  went  alone  to  the  station.  There  was  a  wind  blow 
ing,  and  she  made  her  way  against  the  unfriendly  gusts  with 
flagging  steps.  As  she  drew  near  the  red  building  she  saw 
a  man  with  gray  hair  standing  outside  as  though  waiting 
for  someone.  He  looked  at  her  carelessly.  Then  they 
started  toward  each  other  with  mutual  surprise. 

"Why,  Fred,  I  didn't  recognize  you!  How  good  this  is 
of  you !  How  did  you  get  off  so  early  ?  " 

"  Bucher  let  me  out.  There's  a  quarter  of  an  hour  yet. 
The  train's  behind,  as  usual.  Let's  walk  out  this  way.  Does 
it  tire  you  to  walk  ?  You  were  coming  so  slowly  that  I  didn't 
know  you  till  you  got  right  up  to  me.  That  hat  makes  you 
looked  different,  someway." 

The  cousins  linked  arms  and  paced  along  the  platform  to 
the  little  station  yard.  They  turned  into  it,  and  Fred  led 
the  way  to  the  iron  bench  in  front  of  the  empty  fountain 
basin.  They  sat  down  and  Fred  asked  sympathetically  after 
his  aunt. 


THE     BALLINGTONS  369 

"  I  left  her  with  a  smile  on  her  face,  quoting  a  verse  from 
the  Bible  after  me.  She's  a  wonderful  woman,  Fred.  Why 
can't  I  be  like  her!  I  can't  tell  you  how  I  feel  about  this 
sale  of  the  house."  Agnes  rose  to  her  feet  impetuously  and 
started  to  walk  away,  then  turned  and  came  back  again. 

Fred  felt  a  recurrence  of  his  old  rage  against  Ferdinand. 
Agnes  realized  it,  and  said,  as  she  so  often  had  said  to  her 
self  of  late,  that  one  person  must  not  judge  another.  No 
two  think  alike.  Her  husband  was  a  business  man,  who  had, 
as  he  thought,  made  an  advantageous  bargain. 

Fred  did  not  reply  at  once.  When  he  did  it  was  with  an 
abrupt  announcement.  "Agnes,  Bucher  advises  me  to  get 
a  divorce  from  Beatrice." 

She  started  and  turned  a  stupefied  face  to  his.  Something 
dreadful  must  have  happened  to  make  a  conservative  man 
like  Mr.  Bucher  advise  divorce.  She  well  knew  that  he  would 
be  the  last  man  to  countenance  it,  and  that  this  fact,  coupled 
with  the  long  relation  existing  between  him  and  Fred,  would 
lend  great  weight  to  his  opinion. 

Hard  upon  her  astonishment  there  crowded  a  disquieting 
memory.  Her  husband  had  said  more  than  once  of  late  that 
Sidney  was  a  tame  fool,  otherwise  he  would  get  rid  of  his 
wife.  It  was  a  coincidence,  too,  that  just  now  Ferdinand 
and  Mr.  Bucher  were  having  business  relations.  But  she 
shook  off  the  unwelcome  thought. 

Fred  continued  with  a  colorless  face,  "  I'm  going  to  tell 
her  to-night." 

"  Is  this  because  of — Tom  ?  " 

"Yes.  I  went  home  last  night  and  found  them  drinking 
champagne.  We  had  a  talk  before  he  left.  He  promised 
to  keep  away  from  Kent,  but  he  can't.  You  see  she  should 
have  married  him,  not  me.  It  has  taken  me  a  long  time  to 
see  through  that.  There  is  nothing  for  me  but  just  to  cut 
loose — is  there?" 

He  put  the  question  with  anguish.  Agnes  well  knew  that 
the  deepest  tragedy  of  life  never  comes  in  earthquake  or  fire, 
but  in  the  horror  of  great  darkness,  where  a  man  may  lie 


370  THE     BALLINGTONS 

down  and  die  beside  his  own  doorstep,  thinking  himself  a 
thousand  miles  off  on  the  plain.  Was  the  world  all  gone 
wrong?  Had  they  made  some  fatal  error  in  their  own  con 
duct?  Could  they,  perchance,  have  touched  the  right  springs 
of  action — he  in  the  wife,  she  in  the  husband?  Could  it  be 
possible  that  if  they  only  put  out  their  hands  in  the  right 
direction  now,  they  could  touch  the  portal  of  safety  and 
happiness  ? 

Fred  waited  a  moment,  and  then  repeated  the  question. 

Agnes  turned  to  him,  leaning  forward  as  she  said  with 
one  of  her  old  restless  gestures :  "  I  shouldn't  do  it,  Fred. 
Remember  it  was  for  better  or  for  worse ;  and  she  never  loved 
Tom.  Don't  allow  that  thought  to  stay  in  your  mind.  She 
did  love  you.  Bucher  is  wrong.  Somebody — something 
has  misled  him.  This  isn't  love  that  Tom  and  Beatrice  have 
for  each  other.  It  is  a  kind  of  possession.  They  both  want 
something  else." 

Her  face  kindled.  She  struck  her  hand  forcibly  on  the  arm 
of  the  bench  and  her  voice  had  a  ring  of  courage  as  she 
continued  quickly,  "  There  is  splendid  stuff  in  both  of  them. 
You  can't  give  up.  Try  to  compromise.  Take  all  you  can 
that  she  gives  you,  and  love  her  for  it.  You  have  been  too 
proud.  She  has  a  right  to  do  for  you.  In  time  she  will  come 
to  see  that  she  must  give  up  some  things,  too.  Don't  talk 
to  Bucher.  Talk  to  her.  Come!  Bucher  and  you  and  I 
have  no  sort  of  backbone.  Look  at  my  mother.  That  is 
the  way  to  face  life." 

Fred  looked  at  her  with  a  spark  in  his  eyes.  It  died  out 
in  a  moment,  however,  but  his  face  brightened.  They  both 
looked  more  like  themselves,  and  involuntarily  their  minds 
reverted  to  their  old  life  together.  Agnes  felt  a  recurrent 
rush  of  the  old  delicious  faith  in  the  world  with  God  in  His 
Heaven  over  it  all.  She  smiled  at  Fred  with  sudden 
brilliancy. 

"  That  is  the  way  to  face  life,"  she  repeated,  "  to  settle 
every  little  question  as  it  comes  up  with  good-will  and 
finality.  Treat  little  things  wisely  as  though  they  were 


THE    BALLINGTONS  371 

serious  and  large.  Let  others  have  their  rights  in  the  little 
things,  too.  You  haven't  given  Beatrice  hers.  You  ask  her 
to  give  her  life  to  you  and  you  won't  take  her  money.  If 
you  take  the  real  thing  why  not  take  its  symbol?  Oh,  Fred, 
it's  wrong  to  refuse  to  share  with  her  because  you're  a  man. 

It's  as  wrong  as "  She  checked  herself,  then  continued 

in  a  different  tone,  "  My  father  and  mother  were  co-workers. 
Each  lived  according  to  his  own  conscience,  and  when  they 
did  not  agree  they  came  to  a  mutual  understanding  of  how 
much  each  must  give  up.  You  want  Beatrice  to  meet  you 
spiritually.  Show  her  that  you  are  willing  to  meet  her  where 
she  craves  union.  Take  your  good  things  together.  Make 
your  sacrifices  together.  Your  money  and  your  travels  and 
your  work  will  be  the  accompaniments  of  a  spiritual  union." 

"Agnes,"  said  her  cousin,  "you  make  me  feel  like  old 
times.  I  feel  as  though  we  only  had  to  look  up  to  see  Uncle 
Stephen  drive  old  Peggy  up  to  the  platform.  Some  good 
people  have  lived  after  all.  It  ought  to  count  when  a  poor 
cuss  does  as  well  as  he  can,  even  if  it  is  pretty  poor."  He 
stopped,  then  made  a  motion  as  if  to  speak  and  stopped 
again.  Presently  the  words  came :  "  It's  hard  for  me  to  do 
it,  but  I  will  try  to  follow  your  advice  and  see  what  comes 
of  it." 

A  whistle  announced  the  approaching  train  and  a  rumble 
and  clanging  bell  jarred  the  air  around  them. 

They  rose  and  went  over  to  the  cars.  "  If  you  yield  some 
and  talk  only  to  her,  I  think  she  will  yield,  too,"  said  Agnes 
urgently. 

When  the  train  rolled  out  Fred  stood  watching  it  out  of 
sight.  Then,  with  new  endurance  in  his  heart,  he  turned  and 
walked  home. 


CHAPTER   III 

]\/f  RS.  SIDNEY  stood  by  her  bedroom  window  and  looked 
out  into  the  back  garden.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  of  the 
last  night  that  she  was  to  stay  in  the  home  to  which  the  doctor 
had  brought  her  a  bride  forty-five  years  before.  The  house 
itself  had  changed  but  little,  but  she  remembered,  as  she  looked 
out,  how  bare  the  garden  had  been  when  they  first  came.  He 
and  she  together  had  planted  the  trees,  the  grapevines,  and 
the  rose  bushes.  The  one  tall  poplar  that  now  overtopped 
all  the  other  trees  Stephen  had  stuck  in  the  ground  as  a  mere 
whip  once  when  they  returned  from  a  country  ride.  He  was 
lying  now  out  there  to  the  west,  past  the  spires  of  the 
Catholic  church.  Further  to  the  west  her  baby  was  mistress 
of  a  home  of  her  own,  and  way  on  beyond  where  the  land  grew 
level  Helen  was  waiting  out  her  lonely  pilgrimage.  Upstairs 
Aunt  Mattie  was  asleep  in  a  cot.  In  the  office  Dr.  Quinn  was 
patiently  at  work  on  his  accounts. 

Mrs.  Sidney  turned  away  from  the  window  and  knelt  down 
by  her  bed.  She  waited  there  for  a  long  time  for  prayer  to 
come,  as  she  had  waited  night  after  night  previously,  but  at 
last  she  pulled  her  heavy  body  up  again,  took  up  the  lamp, 
and  went  out  to  the  office.  When  she  opened  the  office  door 
Dr.  Quinn  turned  in  his  chair.  She  started  as  she  saw  him. 

"  Is  there  anything  the  matter?  "  he  asked  in  friendly 
apprehension. 

"  No,  Quinn,  I  started  to  come  in  here  to  speak  to  you,  but 
just  as  I  turned  the  knob  of  the  door  I  thought  I  was  going 
to  see  Stephen  here  at  his  desk.  I  guess  I  haven't  been 
sleeping  enough." 

He  knew  this,  and  he  asked  with  half  the  physician's  and 
half  the  friend's  gentleness,  "  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  " 

372 


THE     BALLINGTONS  373 

"  Yes,  Quinn.  I  can't  seem  to  get  hold  of  myself.  I  have 
been  trying  to  have  family  prayers.  Stephen  and  I  had 
prayers  together  the  first  night  we  passed  in  this  house. 
Perhaps  if  you  should  come  in  and  sit  with  me  a  little  while 
I  might  come  to." 

Dr.  Quinn  shoved  away  his  books  and  followed  her  into  the 
sitting-room.  They  sat  down  by  the  table,  and  after  a  little 
while  the  old  lady  said,  "  What  do  you  think  is  the  '  secret 
place  of  the  Most  High,'  Quinn?  I've  been  saying  that 
over  and  over  to  myself,  '  He  that  dwelleth  in  the  secret  place 
of  the  Most  High  shall  abide  under  the  shadow  of  the 
Almighty.' " 

The  doctor  opened  the  big  Bible  that  lay  in  its  accustomed 
place  on  the  table,  and  after  some  searching  found  the  pas 
sage  he  desired  and  turned  the  book  toward  her. 

But  Mrs.  Sidney  made  a  little  motion  for  him  to  keep  it. 
"  You  read,"  she  said,  "  and  then  perhaps  I  can  pray."  And 
she  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  let  her  eyes  close. 

Dr.  Quinn  watched  her  for  a  few  moments.  He  felt  an 
involuntary  inclination  to  reach  out  for  her  wrist.  But  as 
she  presently  opened  her  eyes  enough  to  question  him  with 
them,  he  turned  back  to  the  book  and  began  to  read.  He  was 
slow  of  speech,  but  one  could  see  in  his  reading  the  mind  mov 
ing  along  with  the  words,  like  the  finger  of  a  child,  from  line 
to  line.  To-night  Mrs.  Sidney's  mind  moved  laboriously, 
too,  so  that  she  was  glad  to  sit  still  with  her  eyes  shut  and 
have  time  to  think  what  each  word  meant. 

And  the  doctor  read,  choosing  his  passages: 

"  He  bowed  the  heavens,  and  came  down ;  and  darkness  was 
under  his  feet.  He  made  darkness  his  secret  place;  his  pavil 
ion  round  about  him  was  dark  waters  and  thick  clouds  of 
the  sky." 

"  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes  to  the  hills,  from  whence  cometh 
my  help.  My  help  cometh  from  the  Lord,  which  made  heaven 
and  earth.  He  will  not  suffer  thy  foot  to  be  moved :  he  that 
keepeth  thee  shall  not  slumber.  Behold,  he  that  keepeth  thee 
shall  neither  slumber  nor  sleep." 


374  THE     BALLINGTONS 

"  Like  as  a  father  pitieth  his  children,  so  the  Lord  pitieth 
them  that  fear  him.  For  he  knoweth  our  frame;  he  remem- 
bereth  that  we  are  dust." 

Mrs.  Sidney  opened  her  eyes  when  he  had  done,  and  they 
both  knelt  down.  Dr.  Quinn  was  still  thinking  from  the 
look  of  his  friend  that  she  was  a  little  confused  in  mind  and 
mistook  him  for  her  husband,  but  as  soon  as  she  began  to 
speak  he  knew  that  her  mind  was  clear. 

She  began  with  the  Lord's  Prayer,  saying  the  words  in  a 
full,  clear  voice,  whose  meaning  was  such  that  the  doctor  felt 
he  never  had  known  the  words  before. 

He  knew  that  she  would  go  on  presently,  and  so  he  waited 
until  she  did. 

"I  have  come  back,  O  Lord,  and  I  am  ready  to  stay  and 
work  in  Thy  vineyard  as  long  as  it  is  Thy  will.  I  am  not 
afraid  any  longer.  I  will  dwell  in  the  secret  place  of  the 
Most  High.  O  God,  cover  with  the  shadow  of  the  Almighty 
my  two  little  girls.  They  are  Thy  own  children.  We  gave 
them  to  Thee  when  they  were  born.  I  put  it  to  Thee,  O  Lord, 
to  take  care  of  them.  And  bless  this  young  man  who  is  to 
take  Stephen's  place  here.  Fix  him  like  a  nail  in  a  sure 
place.  And  now  I  lay  me  down  in  peace  to  sleep,  for  Thou, 
Lord,  makest  me  to  dwell  in  safety." 

Dr.  Quinn  helped  her  to  rise,  and  they  stood  for  a  moment 
facing  each  other,  she  with  her  hands  on  his  shoulders.  He 
saw  that  it  was  well  with  her  in  her  heart,  and  he  did  not  say 
what  he  had  wanted  to  about  his  own  inability  to  buy  the 
house. 

"  I  trust  you,  Quinn,"  she  said,  giving  him  a  mother's  smile. 
"You  will  keep  up  the  doctor's  name  here.  God  has  been 
very  good  to  send  you  here." 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her,  and  she  knew  that  he 
understood  all  that  she  meant,  and,  if  he  had  been  a  man  who 
could  talk,  that  he  would  have  answered. 

Then  they  spoke  about  some  little  duties  that  were  left 
between  them,  the  bandages  she  had  made  for  him  out  of  the 
old  sheets,  the  doctor's  clothes  she  had  given  him,  the  use 


THE    BALLINGTONS  375 

of  the  books.    She  brought  him  some  milk  to  drink,  and  then 
they  said  good-night. 

Dr.  Quinn  went  back  to  his  books  and  finished  the  task  he 
had  set  himself,  but  before  he  lay  down  to  sleep  in  the  back 
office  he  walked  softly  to  the  door  of  Mrs.  Sidney's  room, 
which  was  left  ajar.  He  heard  her  regular  breathing  and 
knew  that  her  soul  was  satisfied  and  the  weary  body  at  rest. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AFTER  Mrs.  Sidney  left  her  home  and  settled  on  the 
"^  Sidney  farm  some  fifteen  miles  out  of  Kent,  Agnes  did 
not  go  to  see  her  mother. 

Mrs.  Sidney  had  been  there  a  fortnight  when  the  Mabies 
arrived  to  make  their  permanent  home  with  her.  Pleasant 
had  at  last  exhausted  all  the  devices  for  losing  money  his 
fertile  brain  could  hit  upon,  and  Mrs.  Sidney  as  a  creditor 
was  clothed  with  more  authority  than  she  had  been  able  to 
wield  as  a  mere  mother-in-law.  Helen  broke  up  housekeep 
ing  simultaneously  with  her  mother,  and  the  bitterness  of  her 
grief  was  incalculably  augmented  by  the  thought  that  Pleas 
ant  had  been  responsible  for  the  loss  of  both  homes. 

When  Ferdinand  learned  that  the  Mabies  were  coming,  he 
experienced  the  disagreeable  sensation  of  the  general  who 
thinks  he  has  captured  his  opponent's  position,  only  to  find 
he  has  taken  but  the  outer  intrenchments.  The  opposing 
general,  meantime,  has  withdrawn  into  his  stronghold, 
massed  his  forces,  and,  being  well-provisioned  for  an  indefinite 
siege,  indifferently  refuses  to  consider  terms.  Ferdinand  had 
expected  to  arrange  Mrs.  Sidney's  future  sensibly  for  her, 
and  to  be  able  at  last  to  dictate  his  shiftless  brother-in-la^'s 
method  of  life.  He  had  upon  several  occasions  tried  to  obtain 
possession  of  the  little  farm,  and,  failing  that,  had  watched  it 
run  down  with  philosophic  approval.  It  had  seemed  to  him 
an  impossible  refuge  for  his  mother-in-law.  He  would  not 
acknowledge  to  himself  the  irritation  he  felt  when  Mrs.  Sidney 
turned  her  sturdy  back  upon  him  and  gathered  the  prodigal 
Pleasant  with  his  inexcusably  large  family  under  her  own 
roof.  Ferdinand's  chagrin  was  not  at  all  lessened  by  a  shrewd 
suspicion  that  he  never  again  would  be  able  to  get  a  finger 
into  his  mother-in-law's  affairs.  Pleasant  was  doomed  to 
walk  in  Mrs.  Sidney's  ways,  and  the  whole  family  would  con- 

376 


THE     BALLINGTONS  377 

tinue  to  live  in  that  self-willed  and  wasteful  manner  from 
which  he  had  been  able  to  rescue  only  Agnes. 

It  was  with  a  grudging  but  uncontrollable  curiosity  to 
see  how  they  got  along  that  he  suggested  one  day  to  Agnes 
that  they  should  go  down  to  see  her  mother  and  greet  the 
Mabies.  To  his  surprise  Agnes  quietly  declined;  and  when 
he  expostulated  with  her  upon  not  being  filial  and  sisterly, 
her  clear  look  made  him  awkwardly  conscious  that  she  knew 
all  that  was  in  his  mind,  and  thought  it  beneath  him.  Never 
theless  he  went  alone,  and  apologized  with  undiscouraged 
civility  to  his  mother-in-law  for  Agnes'  failure  to  accompany 
him,  on  the  ground  that  she  was  not  able  to  make  the  j  ourney. 

He  was  caught  and  made  resentful  by  a  satirical  twinkle 
in  Aunt  Mattie's  eyes,  which  bore  a  disagreeable  resemblance 
in  an  aggravated  form  to  the  penetration  of  his  wife's  expres 
sion  before  he  left  home.  Ferdinand  was  so  incensed  at  the 
latent  sagacity  of  this  crippled  old  cumberer  of  the  earth 
that  he  took  occasion  later,  when  all  the  heterogeneous  family 
were  present,  to  remark  casually,  "  I  suppose  your  sister- 
in-law  expects  to  make  her  home  during  the  large  proportion 
of  the  year  with  her  own  relatives?  The  house  seems  small 
for  so  large  a  family." 

That  remark  proved  to  be  the  turning-point  of  Pleasant 
Mabie's  career. 

Pleasant  was  just  ripe  for  this  turning-point,  too,  because 
of  certain  influences  which  had  been  working  upon  him  quietly 
for  some  weeks  past.  Upon  his  arrival  at  the  farm  where 
he  had  found  in  Aunt  Mattie  one  more  helpless  than  himself, 
the  instinct  which  in  the  past  had  led  him  to  buy  up  and  take 
care  of  all  the  sick  and  disabled  animals  he  could  get  hold  of 
took  a  new  direction.  This  was  fortified  by  a  brow-beaten 
remorse  for  his  own  responsibility  in  the  family  disasters 
which  in  secret  had  preyed  upon  his  soul  ever  since  he  had 
received  a  letter  from  Ferdinand  earlier  in  the  winter.  The 
two  emotions  combined  to  rouse  him  to  a  humble  and  pitifully 
dogged  effort  to  take  as  much  of  the  burden  as  he  could 
carry  from  the  women  of  the  household. 


378  THE    BALLINGTONS 

This  letter  of  Ferdinand's  had  contained  a  full  and  de 
tailed  summary  of  all  Pleasant's  business  career,  and  had 
closed  with  a  scathing  analysis  of  the  methods  which  a  man 
of  so  hopelessly  futile  a  character  as  Pleasant's  ought  to 
pursue  at  once  in  order  to  make  as  little  trouble  as  possible 
for  the  future.  Ferdinand  had  pointed  out  to  Pleasant  that 
he  never  again  must  think  of  doing  anything  whatever  unless 
some  superior  mind  advised  him.  In  conclusion  the  writer 
stated  indifferently  that  in  consideration  of  his  wife's  rela 
tionship  to  Helen  Mabie  he  himself  would  consent  to  take 
the  burden  of  Pleasant's  guardianship  from  now  on. 

The  humiliation  and  resentment  which  this  letter  had 
caused  Pleasant,  along  with  the  letter  itself,  had  been  care 
fully  concealed  from  even  his  wife.  He  had  destroyed  the 
letter  as  soon  as  he  had  read  it,  and  he  had  relieved  his  mind 
many  times  since  by  composing  grandiloquent  answers  which 
even  he  could  not  help  realizing  would  cause  only  amuse 
ment,  and  which  he  accordingly  tore  up  regularly  twenty-four 
hours  after  they  were  written. 

Upon  this  hopeless  and  weakly  desperate  mood  Aunt  Mat- 
tie  had  acted  with  unexpected  stimulus.  The  spring  of  pity 
and  incongruous  joy  which  welled  up  in  the  able-bodied  but 
shuffling  man  when  he  first  realized  Aunt  Mattie's  condition 
created  an  oasis  in  the  desert  of  life.  He  established  himself 
at  once  as  a  kind  of  lady's-maid  to  the  cripple,  and  Mrs.  Sid 
ney  acknowledged  before  he  had  been  twenty-four  hours  on 
the  farm  that  Pleasant  saved  more  steps  than  an  invalid-chair 
would  have  done.  He  carried  Aunt  Mattie  up  and  down 
stairs,  saw  that  she  had  an  airing  regularly,  and  had  her  on 
his  mind  from  the  time  that  he  awoke  until  he  went  to  sleep. 

At  first  Aunt  Mattie  had  been  harassed  and  humiliated 
by  these  unremitting  attentions  from  a  man  to  whom  she 
always  had  felt  an  instinctive  antipathy,  but  her  canny  mind 
soon  saw  that  here  was  an  opportunity,  not  indeed  such  as  she 
would  have  chosen,  to  establish  a  beneficent  despotism  over 
Helen's  invertebrate  husband.  To  this  end  she  feigned  a 
dependence  she  was  far  from  feeling,  and  it  was  out  of  con- 


THE    BALLINGTONS  379 

sideration  for  this  that  Pleas  ant's  quixotic  chivalry  consid 
ered  itself  bound  to  carry  out  all  her  suggestions.  Thus 
already,  before  Ferdinand's  visit,  Aunt  Mattie  had  managed 
to  supply  Pleasant's  willing  energies  with  brains. 

The  unexpected  turn  of  affairs  had  filled  Mrs.  Sidney  and 
Helen  at  first  with  incredulity,  then  with  relief  and  thank 
fulness  ;  while  Aunt  Mattie,  for  her  part,  and  to  her  own 
surprise,  was  experiencing  the  first  eagerness  and  interest  in 
life  she  had  known  for  years.  She  was  finding  a  grim 
pleasure  in  mortifying  her  spirit  by  managing  Pleasant,  and 
a  gentler  pleasure  in  becoming  the  boon-companion  of  the 
children.  Kitty  read  to  her.  Dan  laid  all  sorts  of  objects 
at  her  feet  and  listened  enthralled  while  she  discoursed  to 
to  him  about  them.  Each  of  the  small  children,  too,  found 
in  the  laconic,  humorous  cripple  some  phase  of  intimate 
companionship.  Thus,  much  to  the  surprise  of  everybody 
concerned,  the  center  of  gravity  of  the  household  seemed 
actually  shifting  and  promised  in  time  to  adjust  the  weight 
somewhat  evenly  between  Helen  and  Mrs.  Sidney  and  Pleasant 
and  Aunt  Mattie. 

It  was  just  as  the  dawn  of  this  new  possibility  was  becom 
ing  apparent  that  Ferdinand  made  his  call  and  very  unex 
pectedly  witnessed  the  full  sunrise  of  the  new  era  for  Pleas 
ant.  Nay,  he  even  acted  as  the  Apollo  who  guided  the 
chariot  of  the  ascending  luminary  above  the  horizon. 

When  he  made  his  carefully  calculated  remark  about  the 
smallness  of  the  house,  with  the  accompanying  supposition 
that  Aunt  Mattie  probably  intended  to  live  elsewhere,  a  sud 
den  change  was  visible  in  Pleasant  Mabie.  The  universally 
addressed  apology  which  had  been  apparent  in  the  droop 
of  every  dejected  muscle  of  his  frame  for  weeks  past  dis 
appeared.  His  mild  and  plaintive  voice  took  on  a  ring  which 
startled  Mrs.  Sidney  so  much  that  she  put  on  her  glasses  to 
look  at  him. 

"If  this  house  is  too  small,  my  boys  can  sleep  out  in  the 
barn  with  me,  and  we  will,  from  now  on.  We're  the  ones  to 
get  out.  I  allow  I'm  not  a  shining  success  in  life,  but  I  ain't 


380  THE    BALLINGTONS 

got  down  yet  to  turning  women  out  of  doors  because  they're 
old  and  crippled  and  only  related  to  me  by  marriage." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  after  this  unequivocal  speech. 

At  last  Pleasant  had  succeeded  in  giving  expression  to 
the  meaning  of  the  grandiloquent  letters  to  Ferdinand  which 
an  instinct  of  true  literary  criticism  had  forbidden  him  to 
send.  He  was  conscious  even  as  he  spoke  of  the  difference 
between  the  literary  style  and  the  vernacular,  and  he  re 
gretted  bitterly  the  lack  of  dignity  and  impressiveness  which 
necessary  haste  demanded.  If  he  only  could  have  remem 
bered  those  few  good  sentences  which  in  calmer  moments  he 
had  been  able  to  cull  out  of  the  diffuse  body  of  his  late  liter 
ary  labors !  The  consciousness  that  he  was  not  fully  rising 
to  the  opportunity  Fate  had  granted  him  made  him  much 
more  uncompromising  in  facial  expression  and  bodily  de 
meanor  than  he  otherwise  would  have  been,  and  so,  all  inno 
cently,  he  demonstrated  the  true  value  of  rhetorical  compo 
sition.  He  was  perfectly  clear  upon  what  he  wanted  to  say 
and  had  gone  over  all  the  ways  in  which  it  ought  not  to  be 
said.  At  last  what  he  had  been  toiling  to  draw  out  suddenly 
burst  forth  of  its  own  accord,  rampant,  unattended  by  the 
rosy  graces  and  the  flying  hours. 

Helen  heard  and  flushed,  then  turned  white.  Mrs.  Sidney 
stared  as  though  Pleasant  had  become  a  specter.  Aunt 
Mattie  was  carefully  measuring  the  distance  between  her 
chair  and  the  door,  deliberating  whether  she  could  make  it 
alone  or  not.  Pleasant  instantly  rose,  with  a  flourish  of  fury 
and  loathing  in  Ferdinand's  direction,  and  said  with  genuine 
solicitude  to  the  cripple,  "Come  out  into  the  kitchen,  Aunt 
Mattie.  You  can  stir  the  samp  while  I'm  setting  the  table." 

Mrs.  Sidney  made  a  motion  as  if  to  rise,  but  Helen  stopped 
her  with  a  sign,  and  Pleasant  and  Aunt  Mattie  made  their 
exit  in  state,  closing  the  door  after  them. 

Shortly  after  this  untoward  interruption  Ferdinand 
brought  his  call  to  an  end  and  left  the  house  to  return  home. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  intense  dissatisfaction  that  he 
turned  to  give  a  last  look  at  the  dilapidated  place  as  he 


THE    BALLINGTONS  381 

drove  away.  Kitty  Mabie  stood  in  the  doorway  looking  after 
him.  The  only  emotion  apparent  on  her  face  was  one  of  curi 
osity  at  his  spring  coat.  She  regarded  him  no  more  than  she 
would  have  any  other  stranger  who  had  made  a  passing  call. 
Her  straight  young  figure  was  disagreeably  suggestive  of  a 
reincarnation  of  her  grandmother,  and  Ferdinand's  last  im 
pression  as  he  went  around  the  curve  of  the  road  was  one  of 
family  defiance  which  would  one  day  be  younger  and  stronger 
than  he  was.  As  he  passed  through  Kent,  Ferdinand  told  the 
driver  to  take  him  by  Agnes'  old  home.  This,  at  least,  he  had 
been  able  to  dispose  of  to  the  advantage  of  the  unthankful. 

As  he  neared  the  place  he  at  first  failed  to  recognize  it. 
The  new  occupant  had  painted  it,  taken  away  the  fence, 
and  built  on  a  wide  veranda.  The  blinds  had  not  been  rehung. 
The  evergreen  which  had  banked  the  house  had  disappeared. 
Ferdinand  noticed  these  changes  with  approval. 

As  he  was  about  to  continue  on  his  way  he  was  startled 
by  the  appearance  of  the  next  house.  He  cast  a  bewildered 
look  about  him  to  get  his  bearings,  thinking  he  had  made  a 
mistake  in  locating  Agnes'  old  home.  He  had  made  no  mis 
take — Malthus'  sign  over  the  door  was  proof  of  that — and 
yet  right  alongside,  just  across  the  alley,  stood  what  seemed 
to  be  an  apparition  of  Dr.  Sidney's  old  home,  with  all  its 
familiar  features  unchanged.  It  was  as  though,  with  the 
arrival  of  Malthus'  veneered  personality,  the  spirit  of  the 
Sidney  home  had  gone  over  to  the  next  house,  taking  the  ex 
ternal  characteristics  of  its  accustomed  abiding  place  with  it. 
There  were  the  Sidney  evergreens  thriftily  stacked  in  a  corner 
of  the  yard,  there  were  the  old  Sidney  blinds.  Ferdinand  noted 
with  chagrin  the  similarity  in  shape  of  the  two  houses,  while, 
to  complete  the  resemblance,  Dr.  Sidney's  original  sign  was 
hung  out  on  the  wing  corresponding  to  the  office  of  the 
old  house.  Under  Dr.  Sidney's  name,  in  modest  letters,  he 
read  the  legend: 

MARCUS  QUIKK. 

It   was   several   seconds   before  Ferdinand   realized  what 


382  THE    BALLINGTONS 

had  taken  place.  An  old-fashioned  buggy,  drawn  by  a 
familiar  horse  and  driven  by  a  familiar  figure,  at  this  moment 
drove  up  before  the  gate  and  hastened  in  him  the  discovery 
that  Quinn  had  merely  moved  into  the  next  house,  taking  all 
the  doctor's  prestige  with  him  along  with  the  evergreens  and 
blinds  and  horse  and  buggy.  As  he  looked  more  sharply  at 
the  stolid  figure  sitting  in  the  buggy  an  unpleasant  sen 
sation  of  recognition  was  aroused  by  the  sight  of  an 
appreciative  grin  upon  a  face  which  he  now  knew  to  be  that 
of  Quinn  himself. 

Quinn  ducked  his  head,  and  then  began  to  climb  heavily  over 
the  wheels  of  the  buggy.  Ferdinand  touched  his  hat,  and 
sharply  ordered  his  driver  to  start  on,, 

As  he  passed  Quinn  the  possibility  of  the  doctor's  pur 
chasing  this  new  but  unmistakable  Sidney  home  flashed  upon 
him.  His  incorrigible  mother-in-law  and  her  insane  and  pig 
headed  accomplice,  Quinn,  could  not  be  broken  in.  After  all 
he  had  done  they  still  managed  to  get  the  better  of  him.  Fer 
dinand,  who  calculated  not  on  sentiment,  was  unaware  of  the 
loss  and  grief  weighing  down  the  hearts  of  those  who  loved 
every  timber  of  the  old  house,  and  who  found  the  new  one 
but  a  dreary  substitute. 

Ferdinand  looked  at  his  watch  and  hurried  up  the  driver. 
He  had  another  call  to  make  before  going  to  the  station,  and 
his  time  was  short.  He  was  in  a  bitterly  discontented  frame 
of  mind. 

As  he  passed  the  bank,  and,  looking  in,  caught  sight  of 
Fred  Sidney's  bent  head,  it  reminded  him  of  another  annoy 
ing  thing.  He  no  longer  heard  any  talk  of  Fred's  getting 
a  divorce  from  Beatrice.  Ferdinand  did  not  acknowledge 
to  himself  that  there  was  any  malice  in  his  desire  to  have 
the  separation  go  through.  He  would  have  been  incensed 
at  anyone's  daring  to  suggest  that  he  had  desired  and  sought 
to  bring  about  so  unequivocal  an  acknowledgment  from 
Fred  Sidney  that  his  marriage  had  been  a  mistake,  or  that  he 
would  have  been  still  more  glad  to  humiliate  and  socially 
ostracize  Beatrice  Sidney.  He  had  not  asked  himself  why 


THE    BALLINGTONS  383 

he  had  been  so  ill-humored  at  his  wife's  and  Donald's  perse 
vering  efforts  to  break  up  the  relation  between  Beatrice  and 
Tom,  nor  why  this  ill-humor  had  deepened  into  settled  irrita 
tion  at  Tom's  interrupted  but  on  the  whole  growing  attempts 
to  get  back  again  into  business  habits. 

"Is  it  up  this  street,  sir?"  asked  the  driver,  who  was  un 
acquainted  in  Kent. 

Ferdinand  roused  himself  to  answer  in  the  affirmative,  and, 
as  his  eye  caught  sight  of  the  Bucher  residence  a  little  up  the 
side  street  into  which  the  carriage  was  turning,  his  thoughts 
took  a  new  and  pleasanter  direction.  He  spoke  amiably  to 
the  driver  as  he  left  the  carriage  and  turned  toward  the  old- 
fashioned  mansion.  "  There's  a  livery  three  blocks  to  the 
left.  Go  down  and  wait  there  for  a  half  hour."  Then  he 
opened  the  wicket-gate  and  went  in. 

Ferdinand's  call  upon  Mr.  Bucher  was  ostensibly  a  busi 
ness  one,  merely  one  of  the  periodic  conferences  which  had 
been  taking  place  for  some  time  between  them. 

The  long  acquaintanceship  between  the  two  families  had 
become  a  personal  relation  between  Ferdinand  and  the  banker 
ever  since  the  former  had  begun  to  lend  the  bank  money. 
This  relation  dated  from  the  time  when  Ferdinand  relieved 
Bucher  of  Mrs.  Sidney's  home.  Ferdinand's  surface  amiabil 
ity,  which  he  not  uncommonly  employed  in  financial  dealings 
with  outsiders  whose  prospects  for  the  long  run  were  good, 
was  in  Bucher's  case  colored  not  only  by  far-sighted  policy, 
but  by  .personal  motives  into  which  even  he  himself  never  in 
quired  too  curiously.  From  the  first  he  had  measured  his 
man,  and  he  took  with  the  Kent  banker  an  exactly  opposite 
method  from  that  by  which  he  had  hastened  Balch's  ruin  in 
Winston.  He  had  advanced  Bucher  small  sums  of  money 
upon  several  occasion,  taking  desirable  security,  and  he  had 
shown  such  patience  and  consideration  as  a  creditor  that  Mr. 
Bucher  never  could  be  convinced  that  the  rumors  of  Ferdi 
nand's  severity  with  Mrs.  Sidney  were  true.  There  must 
have  been  something  behind  it  all,  he  said. 

The  crisis  of  the  old  gentleman's  obligation  to  Ferdinand 


384  THE     BALLINGTONS 

had  occurred  recently,  and  it  was  one  which  had  descended 
upon  him  so  suddenly  that  he  hardly  realized  the  danger  he 
had  met  and  passed  till  it  was  over  and  he  found  himself  prac 
tically  in  Ferdinand  Ballington's  control.  Ever  since  the 
marriage  of  Beatrice  Mott  to  Fred  Sidney  the  Kent  bank 
had  had  the  use  of  a  share  of  the  Mott  wealth.  Dealings  had 
commenced  with  the  General  himself  and  had  been  continued 
by  Beatrice.  It  struck  dismay  to  the  anxious  banker  when 
some  weeks  before,  following  the  sale  of  Mrs.  Sidney's  home, 
Beatrice  Sidney,  with  much  talk,  direct  and  indirect,  had 
withdrawn  the  Mott  funds  from  Bucher's  bank.  The  blow, 
coming  as  it  did  at  a  time  of  financial  depression,  would  have 
put  an  end  not  only  to  Fred's  clerkship  but  to  Bucher's  busi 
ness  existence,  hafl  not  relief  providentially  been  sent  from  an 
unexpected  quarter.  No  less  a  friend  than  Mrs.  Sidney's 
much-defamed  son-in-law  came  to  Bucher's  assistance  and 
saved  the  bank  from  going  under.  "  I  would  not  be  dis 
turbed  by  anything  Sidney's  wife  can  say,"  Ferdinand  re 
marked  reassuringly  to  the  worried  and  conscience-stung  old 
friend  of  Dr.  Sidney's.  "  She's  going  the  same  way  her 
father  did." 

Ferdinand  would  not  have  allowed  himself  the  indulgence 
of  foiling  Beatrice  had  he  not  thought  himself  financially 
safe  in  his  venture;  but  of  this  he  was  assured.  Bucher  was 
getting  old  and  he  had  his  hands  on  a  good  deal  of  very  de 
sirable  property,  which  might  just  as  well  pass  into  Balling- 
ton  control  as  into  a  stranger's.  Ferdinand  consequently 
had  permitted  himself  to  carry  over  the  harassed  banker, 
and  during  the  process  he  had  obtained  a  marked  ascendency 
over  the  older  man's  mind.  The  good  but  obtuse  German, 
who  through  his  prime  had  unconsciously  been  guided  by 
his  friend  and  neighbor,  Dr.  Sidney,  now  as  unconsciously 
fell  under  the  influence  of  his  old  friend's  son-in-law.  How 
much  financial  dependence  aided  in  the  banker's  failure  to 
read  Ferdinand  he  was  himself  unaware.  He  was  loaded  down 
with  anxieties,  first  among  which  were  his  unmarried  daugh 
ter  and  the,  large  family  of  growing  children  left  him  by  his 


THE    BALLINGTONS  385 

second  wife,  and  after  them  the  hard-working  Kent  men  and 
women  who  had  trusted  him  with  their  savings. 

As  Ferdinand  entered,  the  banker  rose,  coughing,  from  a 
lounge  drawn  up  before  the  fire  and  came  forward  to  greet 
his  visitor. 

Mary  Bucher,  who  sat  sewing  near  her  father,  also  rose 
and  quietly  left  the  room.  She  never  remained  when  Ferdi 
nand  called,  and  he  not  infrequently  had  felt  dimly  that  the 
mild  and  motherly  girl  who  managed  the  banker's  home  was 
as  instinctively  distrustful  of  him  as  her  father  was  instinc 
tively  subservient. 

"I  have  been  out  to  the  farm  to  see  Mrs.  Sidney,"  said 
Ferdinand,  accepting  the  banker's  invitation  to  sit  by  the 
grate,  "  and  I  had  a  half  hour  to  put  in  before  returning  to 
Winston." 

The  tone  of  domestic  intimacy  gratified  Mr.  Bucher,  and 
he  responded  by  encouraging  his  guest's  confidence.  There 
was  some  talk  of  the  family  on  the  farm,  then  of  Fred  Sidney, 
and  at  last,  as  was  usual,  of  Beatrice. 

At  mention  of  her  name  the  banker's  face  clouded.  He 
never  had  approved  wholly  of  Beatrice  or  of  his  daughter's 
friendship  with  her.  He  had  been  surprised  at  her  engage 
ment  to  Fred  Sidney,  and  never  knew  that  his  repugnance  to 
the  marriage  was  partly  because  he,  like  Mrs.  Sidney,  had 
drifted  into  the  conclusion  that  some  time  his  own  daughter 
Mary  would  marry  Dr.  Sidney's  nephew.  He  had  seen  and 
feared  Beatrice's  social  influence  in  Kent,  and  had  known 
better  than  anyone  else  what  Fred  had  suffered  in  his  home. 
His  German  sense  of  what  was  a  woman's  duty  in  life  had 
long  been  violated  by  the  way  in  which  Beatrice  Sidney  con 
ducted  herself,  and  lastly  there  was  his  perturbed  conscious 
ness  of  the  lawless  woman's  open  defiance  and  injury  of  him 
self.  It  was  with  real  apprehension  for  Fred,  as  well  as  with 
a  subconscious  recognition  of  righteous  retribution  coming 
upon  Beatrice,  that  he  listened  to  some  new  disclosures  which 
Ferdinand  now  made. 

When  the  half  hour  was  up,  Ferdinand  left  the  house  with 


386  THE    BALLINGTONS 

a  feeling  of  satisfaction.  He  knew  from  the  banker's  face 
what  was  in  his  mind,  and  he  was  reasonably  certain  that  any 
new  indiscretion  on  the  part  of  Beatrice  would  decide  Fred's 
employer  to  advise  and  once  more  set  forward  the  divorce 
which  Sidney  himself  so  weak-mindedly  had  let  lie. 

He  arrived  at  the  station  just  in  time  for  the  train  and 
made  his  way  home  without  incident. 


CHAPTER  V 

HPHE  grudgingly  told  news  which  her  husband  brought  back 
from  the  farm  convinced  Agnes  better  than  any  willing 
account  would  have  done  that  Ferdinand's  plans  for  her 
mother's  and  sister's  families  had  miscarried.  A  feeling  of 
hope  and  returning  energy  was  born  in  her  with  the  realiza 
tion  that  the  family  fortunes  had  touched  their  lowest  point 
and  were  beginning  to  rise.  Her  relief  assisted  her  to  make 
a  determined  effort  herself  to  fight  against  the  despair  of  her 
own  situation.  She  refused  to  succumb  to  her  growing 
physical  disability,  and  even  made  its  enforced  leisure  tribu 
tary  to  her  mental  development.  She  had  been  writing  for 
some  time  and  had  been  undiscouraged  in  her  attempts  to 
gain  recognition.  It  had  seemed,  too,  like  a  confirmation  of 
the  legitimacy  of  her  desires  that  this  winter  for  the  first 
time  bits  of  verse  and  one  or  two  prose  articles  had  been  pub 
lished  in  the  magazines  and  were  winning  favorable  comment. 
The  letters  from  her  mother  and  sister  were  regular  and  hope 
ful.  Miriam,  who  was  in  Paris  studying,  was  sending  a 
weekly  budget  of  stimulating  comment  upon  men  and  events 
in  the  French  capital. 

This  contact  with  the  larger  current  of  life  kept  Agnes 
from  brooding  too  much  upon  her  individual  eddy.  Imper 
sonal  rumors  of  war,  of  international  jealousy,  of  diplomatic 
intrigue,  that  appeared  in  the  newspapers  took  on  a  vivid  and 
dramatic  interest  at  the  touch  of  Miriam's  pen.  She  had  met 
this  German  prince  and  that  French  diplomat  at  a  soiree 
which  came  off  after  the  long  secret  interview  where  they 
had  decided  the  fate  of  an  oriental  kingdom,  and  she  told 
in  her  whimsical  way  how  all  the  company  were  agog  to  read 
in  the  inscrutable  social  masks  which  the  famous  men  put 
on  with  their  decorations,  which  of  them  had  been  worsted, 
or  if  it  were  true  that  a  challenge  had  been  offered  and  ac- 

387 


388  THE    BALLINGTONS 

cepted  during  the  heat  of  the  Interview.  On  the  margin  or 
at  the  head  of  a  page  might  be  a  sketch  of  the  unofficial  Papal 
legate,  whose  fixed  smile  and  drooping  eyes  proclaimed  more 
eloquently  than  words  the  Papal  attitude  toward  the  re 
public.  In  close  juxtaposition  to  the  diaphanous  Italian 
would  stolidly  stand  the  sluggish,  fat,  fez-topped  inertia  of 
the  last  Turkish  envoy-extraordinary  sent  over  to  beg  off 
for  burning  some  French  consular  establishment  anywhere 
between  the  Red  Sea  and  Macedonia.  There  were  apologetic 
criticisms  of  the  last  opera  and  the  last  play,  and  dogmatic 
assertions  about  the  salon  pictures  and  statues.  All  this 
served  to  keep  so  much  of  the  full-resounding  roar  of  the 
great  world  constantly  in  Agnes'  ears  that  she  was  able  to 
submerge  the  insistent  throbbing  of  her  own  single  string 
in  the  great  sea  of  sound. 

But  there  came  hours  in  the  silence  of  the  night  when  the 
great  world  seemed  swinging  far  off  in  space  around  its  pre 
scribed  orbit  while  she  was  but  a  wandering  fragment  be 
longing  to  no  world — lost  in  chaos.  Strive  as  she  might  to 
lose  the  consciousness  of  herself  in  the  care  for  others,  she 
could  not  keep  out  of  her  mind  her  spiritual  loneliness  and 
that  ever  present  question:  *'  Am  I  winning  or  am  I  failing?  " 

Except  in  the  night,  however,  Agnes  did  not  have  much 
leisure  to  search  her  own  soul.  In  one  direction  her  fore 
bodings  had  been  fully  realized.  She  was  kept  constantly 
occupied  making  intercourse  possible  between  her  husband 
and  their  children.  Ferdinand's  inability  to  realize  the  im 
maturity  of  mind  and  disposition  in  the  children  made  him 
cruelly  harsh  in  his  treatment  of  them.  His  rules  were  so 
many,  and  the  infringement  of  them  consequently  so  inevi 
table,  and  Estelle  and  Stephen  lived  in  a  kind  of  peon 
age,  slaves  to  a  constantly  renewed  penalty.  Then,  too, 
much  as  she  loved  Aunt  Margaret,  the  latter's  furtive  and 
well-meant  indulgences  often  forcibly  recalled  to  Agnes' 
mind  Estelle  Landseer's  solution  of  her  similar  dilemma. 
Ferdinand's  mother  had  taken  her  child  and  gone  away  for 
a  time.  Unfortunately  no  such  course  was  open  to  Agnes. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  389 

In  one  respect,  however,  Agnes'  personal  endeavor  seemed 
slowly  tending  toward  success.  In  conjunction  with  Donald, 
she  was  encouraging  Tom's  wavering  alienation  from  Bea 
trice.  She  could  not  work  upon  Beatrice  directly  on  account 
of  Ferdinand's  command  that  there  should  be  no  intercourse 
between  tlje  families,  and  even  Tom  she  could  not  see  as  often 
as  she  wished  because  of  Ferdinand's  and  his  mutual  dislike. 
Donald  she  saw  often,  and  the  seriousness  of  their  common 
object  sometimes  made  her  ignore  and  sometimes  blinded  her 
to  her  husband's  cynical  toleration  of  his  business  partner's 
visits.  It  had  been  a  great  relief  to  her  that  Fred  had  tacitly 
dropped  the  subject  of  divorce,  for  she  realized  that  time 
seemed  to  promise  everything  now.  She  began  to  look  back 
with  increasing  hope  to  that  early  conversation  she  as  a  girl 
had  with  Beatrice,  wherein  she  had  been  convinced  of  the 
latter's  affection  for  Fred. 

As  spring  advanced,  the  willows  bordering  the  lake  slowly 
brightened  into  yellow  flame.  A  green  mist  gathered  about 
the  gray  branches  of  the  trees,  and  the  air  grew  balmy. 
Agnes  spent  much  time  out  of  doors  with  her  children.  She 
never  had  been  so  poignantly  grateful  for  the  spring,  and 
day  after  day  the  little  group  traced  the  almost  impercep 
tible  arrival  of  the  flowers  and  foliage  and  birds.  These  were 
the  friends  Agnes  was  teaching  her  children  to  live  with. 
Each  day  they  eagerly  brought  her  new  blossoms,  and,  every 
night  before  she  put  them  to  bed,  they  lingered  long  at  the 
nursery  window  watching  the  home-coming  of  the  birds 
through  the  lengthening  twilight.  A  pair  of  robins  had 
made  their  nest  in  the  poplar  tree  outside.  A  shy  catbird 
lived  somewhere  in  the  garden  shrubbery,  but  they  never  had 
been  able  to  find  its  nest.  Under  the  eaves  of  the  old  barn 
dwelt  a  colony  of  swallows.  Stephen  knew  the  robins  and 
swallows,  and  Estelle  could  recognize  them  all  on  the  wing, 
and  while  they  watched  for  the  dark  flitting  spots  coming 
swiftly  homeward  through  the  sunlit  air  of  evening,  their 
mother  told  them  of  the  wooing  and  loyalty  of  the  little 
ae'real  families. 


390  THE    BALLINGTONS 

It  seemed  to  Agnes  that  her  emotions  were  more  and  more 
withdrawing  themselves  from  the  social  world,  and  that  she 
was  drifting,  with  her  children,  into  a  life  where  the  sweet  and 
kindly  instincts  of  nature  ruled  with  wise  harmony.  But  one 
day,  late  in  May,  a  shock  precipitated  her  back  into  the 
chaos  created  by  human  passion.  A  messenger  boy  brought 
her  the  following  letter  from  Fred  Sidney: 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN: 

At  our  last  meeting  I  promised  to  tell  you  before  I  committed  myself 
irrevocably  to  the  course  of  breaking  up  my  home.  Accordingly  this 
is  to  acquaint  you  with  my  decision  before  I  put  it  into  execution.  It 
is  impossible  any  longer  for  me  to  ignore  my  plain  duty.  Bucher 
advised  me  some  months  ago,  as  I  told  you,  to  arrange  a  divorce, 
although  he  believes  that  divorce  should  be  a  last  resort. 

It  seemed  to  me  during  the  past  weeks  as  though  my  wife  were  trying 
to  put  up  with  me  and  the  bank,  but  an  interview  I  had  with  her  last 
night  put  an  end  to  hope  of  compromise. 

I  had  a  talk  with  Bucher  yesterday  afternoon,  which  was  occasioned 
by  Tom's  visit  down  here  last  Sunday,  and  he  very  reluctantly  told  me 
something  which  confirmed  what  I  had  heard  before,  but  had  forced 
myself  to  disbelieve.  Bucher  said  he  had  proof  that  Tom  and  Beatrice 
were  originally  engaged,  and  he  told  me  what  had  broken  it  off.  I 
don't  believe  the  latter,  nor  do  I  trust  the  source  from  which  I  believe 
it  came  to  him,  but  it  was  something  that  may  become  true  any  day  if 
I  do  not  give  my  unhappy  and  desperate  wife  the  release  which  she 
craves. 

Beatrice  has  told  me  in  the  past  that  she  wished  she  had  married 
Tom.  I  went  home  and  asked  her  if  she  would  seriously  make  that 
statement,  or  if  she  would  retract  it.  She  became  angry,  said  that  she 
would  not  retract  it,  and,  more  than  that,  that  the  next  time  she  would 
say  it  in  a  way  I  could  not  misunderstand.  I  then  told  her  that  I  would 
relieve  her  from  that  necessity  by  getting  out  of  her  way — in  other 
words,  by  "  deserting  her."  When  I  said  this,  she  insulted  me  by  telling 
me  that  I  might  as  well  speak  out  plainly  and  say  that  I  wanted  to 
marry  Mary  Bucher.  Nothing  that  I  could  say  diverted  her  from  this 
interpretation  of  my  motive,  and  I  can  only  conclude  that  she  put  it 
forward  as  a  pretext  to  further  our  alienation. 

I  left  my  wife's  house  yesterday  and  am  now  leaving  town. 

Do  not  imagine  that  my  own  affairs  keep  me  from  thinking  often 
of  you.  I  hope  you  are  well  and  brave,  and  that  some  time  in  after 
years  when  we  have  fought  our  struggle  to  the  end  and  have  forgotten 
somewhat  its  agony  we  shall,  doubtless,  talk  life  over  and  find  that  it 
means  something  good  after  all. 

I  haven't  worried  Aunt  Kate  with  my  matters. 

Your  affectionate  cousin, 

FRED   SIDNEY. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  391 

As  she  dropped  the  letter  in  her  lap  Agnes  realized  with 
terror  that  hours  had  elapsed  since  Fred  wrote  it  and  that 
Beatrice's  passionate  nature  would  be  likely  to  have  ex 
pressed  itself  at  once  in  some  reckless  and  irrevocable  deed. 
Her  instant  thought  was  to  get  to  Beatrice  to  make  her  wait. 
She  realized  at  once  with  a  woman's  instinct  the  hurt  pride 
and  furious  disappointment  which  lay  behind  Beatrice's 
taunt.  She  knew,  too,  as  Fred  did  not,  although  Beatrice 
did,  that  Mary  Bucher  had  loved  him.  She  was  dismayed  at 
this  talk  of  Beatrice's  long  love  for  Tom,  and  wondered  at 
Fred's  confirmed  blindness. 

Much  as  she  wanted  to  see  Beatrice  she  was  not  able  to 
make  the  hurried  trip  to  Kent,  and  after  a  moment's  hesita 
tion  she  decided  to  get  Beatrice  to  come  to  her.  She  knew 
that  it  would  be  no  easy  task  to  overcome  Beatrice's  objec 
tion  to  re-enter  Ferdinand's  house,  and  she  also  knew  that 
Ferdinand  would  attempt  to  turn  her  out  if  he  should  find 
her  there.  But  too  much  was  at  stake  not  to  risk  embarrass 
ing  consequences. 

Agnes  went  to  the  telephone,  asked  to  be  connected  with 
Kent,  and  waited  in  an  agony  of  suspense  after  ringing  up 
Beatrice.  If  she  were  not  in  her  home,  where  would  she  be? 
Agnes'  heart  went  out  to  her  cousin's  wife,  who,  with  all  her 
money,  was  alone  in  the  world.  Mrs.  Sidney  was  no  longer  in 
Kent,  and  she  well  knew  that  Beatrice's  proud  spirit  would 
seek  counsel  or  sympathy  from  nobody  else. 

Agnes'  heart  was  beating  so  as  almost  to  suffocate  her 
when  she  heard  at  length  Beatrice's  well-known  voice.  She 
was  evidently  calling  to  someone  in  her  own  hall.  Agnes 
heard  her  say,  "  No,  no,  not  that  one.  My  suit-case,  the  tan 
suit-case.  It's  all  packed." 

A  moment  later  there  was  a  sharp  and  stern  "  Hello " 
through  the  receiver.  It  was  followed  by  an  ominous  silence 
when  Beatrice  learned  who  was  speaking  to  her.  Then  came 
the  laconic  question,  "  Well,  what  can  I  do  for  you?  " 

Agnes'  voice  trembled,  but  she  answered  at  once :  "  You 
remember  the  last  time  you  were  here  you  told  me  to  come 


392  THE    BALLINGTONS 

to  you  if  I  was  in  trouble.  I  am  in  very  great  trouble.  I  can 
not  get  to  my  mother  and  I  want  you  to  come  to  me  at  once. 
You  must  not  refuse  me  this.  It's  a  life-and-death  matter. 
I'm  not  able  to  come  to  you  or  I  would.  You  can  just  catch 
the  next  train." 

She  paused  and  held  her  breath  for  the  answer. 

There  was  a  wait;  then  the  same  laconic  voice  inquired, 
"  Are  you  sure  it's  me  you  want  ?  " 

"  Yes.    You  have  just  time  to  get  the  train." 

There  was  another  pause. 

"  All  right.  I'll  get  it,"  came  the  answer,  and  there  was 
the  clang  of  the  receiver  hung  up. 

With  a  revulsion  of  feeling  almost  too  great  to  endure, 
Agnes  left  the  telephone,  ordered  the  carriage  to  meet  the 
train  upon  its  arrival,  sent  Miss  Margaret  out  for  the  after 
noon,  and  then  dispatched  a  note  to  Donald,  telling  him  to 
detain  Ferdinand  at  the  office  until  six  o'clock  that  afternoon. 
Then  she  composed  herself  to  wait  as  best  she  could. 

An  hour  later  the  doorbell  rang.  Agnes  answered  it  her 
self,  although  she  knew  it  was  too  soon  for  Beatrice.  Strange 
things  of  all  kinds  were  ready  to  happen.  This  would  be  one. 
It  was  a  note  from  Donald,  and  a  few  sentences,  simple  as 
they  were,  made  her  feel  that  his  anxiety  was  as  active  as 
her  own. 

Ferdinand  will  be  detained  to-night  by  a  necessary  inspection  of  the 
shops.  Crowell  was  hurt  to-day.  Tom  quit  work  before  noon.  He 
has  been  strange  all  yesterday  and  to-day.  There  is  a  telegram  from 
Kent  waiting  for  him  at  the  office  now.  D. 

Agnes  read  the  letter  twice,  then  burned  it.  A  new  fear 
leaped  into  her  mind  as  she  put  together  Beatrice's  remark 
about  the  packed  suit-case  and  the  waiting  telegram  to  Tom. 
What  did  it  mean?  Would  Beatrice  really  come  to  her  at 
Winston  as  she  had  promised?  Where  was  Tom? 

A  moment  later  she  rang  up  the  shops  and  tried  to  speak 
to  Donald,  but  learned  that  both  he  and  her  husband  were 
with  the  mortally  injured  Crowell. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  393 

Agnes  went  back  to  her  watching,  wondering  what  would 
happen  next.  It  seemed  as  though  her  preternaturally  active 
mind  might  have  prophesied  poor  Crowell's  disaster  before 
the  news  had  reached  her.  The  minutes  at  length  brought 
round  the  hour  when  Beatrice  should  arrive.  Still  Agnes 
looked  through  the  green-room  window  minute  by  minute  for 
an  hour  .over  time.  She  would  have  given  up  hope  of  Bea 
trice's  coming  had  it  not  been  for  the  fact  that  the  carriage 
had  not  returned.  That  meant  that  the  train  was  late.  Oh, 
why  should  it  be  late  to-day  of  all  days ! 

Suddenly  the  telephone  rang  furiously.  Agnes  answered 
it,  and  Donald's  voice,  clear  and  low,  spoke  to  her.  "The 
gentleman  has  just  left  for  home.  It  was  impossible  to  keep 
him  longer.  I  must  find  Tom." 

Agnes  hung  up  the  receiver  and  leaned  against  the  wall 
to  steady  herself.  In  twenty  minutes  Ferdinand  would  be 
there. 

At  the  instant  of  this  realization  she  heard  the  sound  of  the 
returning  carriage.  She  hurried  to  the  door,  threw  it  open, 
and  saw  Beatrice  coming  up  the  steps.  An  overpowering 
relief  and  gratitude  to  the  loyal  friend  surged  over  Agnes. 
Her  fears  had  been  groundless,  she  thought,  but  a  moment 
later  they  came  back  augmented.  Beatrice  kissed  her  fever 
ishly,  and  her  first  words  were  a  strange  mingling  of  tender 
ness  and  excitement. 

"  I  can  stay  here  only  twenty-five  minutes,  Agnes.  I  have 
to  get  the  next  train.  Be  quick  and  tell  me  what  has 
happened." 

An  intuition  flashed  like  lightning  upon  Agnes  with  the 
words.  "  She  has  already  seen  Tom  somewhere  on  her  way 
to  the  house,"  she  thought. 


CHAPTER  VI 

AGNES    reached   around    Beatrice   and   closed   the    door. 
"  You  were  good  to  come,"  she  said  twice,  not  with  nerv 
ousness,  but  with  a  kind  of  solemnity.    Then  she  pushed  open 
the  door  of  the  green  room  and  motioned  Beatrice  in. 

They  looked  at  each  other  silently,  both  standing.  During 
the  journey  Beatrice  had  run  over  many  possible  situations 
in  her  mind,  but  they  all  pointed  to  the  conclusion  that  Agnes 
had  determined  to  leave  Ferdinand,  and  she  now  scrutinized 
Agnes  with  a  sharpness  which  haste  rendered  unequivocal. 
Agnes,  on  her  side,  returned  the  searching  look,  and  she 
found  herself  even  more  moved  than  she  had  expected  to  be 
by  Beatrice's  appearance.  Beatrice's  face  was  pale,  haggard, 
grim,  and  an  uncontrollable  anxiety  showed  in  every  move 
ment.  Agnes  felt  distinctly  that  her  cousin's  wife  was  at 
her  wits'  ends  and  ready  to  do  any  reckless  thing  which  might 
come  into  her  head.  The  girl-fondness  she  had  felt  for 
Beatrice,  the  long  and  silent  gratitude  she  had  given  her 
mother's  friend,  and  the  late  womanly  sympathy  which  she 
had  repressed  with  difficulty,  came  over  her  now,  together. 
Emphasizing  all  these  was  the  look  she  saw  growing  in 
Beatrice's  eyes.  Agnes  wished  to  take  this  friendless  woman 
to  her  heart  while  she  pled  with  her,  and  now  she  saw  in 
Beatrice's  eyes  the  same  maternal  yearning  encircling  her 
self — a  yearning  so  unwonted  there,  that  Agnes,  her  faculties 
on  edge  by  reason  of  the  graveness  of  the  situation,  thought 
the  look  incongruous,  even  grotesque.  A  quick  reaction, 
however,  softened  her  heart  with  pity  for  Beatrice,  for 
herself,  for  all  poor  failures,  made  not  by  crime  but  by  lack 
of  vision.  It  was  some  moments  before  either  of  them 
spoke.  Then  Beatrice  wiped  her  eyes,  turned  resolutely 
to  the  lounge,  sat  down  and  reached  instinctively  for  her 
chatelaine.  She  thought  she  knew  why  she  was  there,  and  she 

394 


THE    BALLINGTONS  395 

was  valiantly  endeavoring  to  collect  her  faculties  and  bear 
the  brunt  of  that  conversation  to  which  she  had  been 
summoned. 

"  I  knew  it  would  come  some  time,  Agnes,"  she  said, 
unclasping  the  net-work  of  gold  that  hung  from  her  girdle. 
"  It's  better  over  with.  I  wish  to  God  it  had  come  before. 
Things  might — but  perhaps  it  is  just  as  well.  Sit  down, 
dearest.  How  many  you  have  left  who  really  love  you. 

There's  your  mother  and  your  sister  and  your  aunt " 

She  halted,  then  went  on.  "There's  Fred,  too.  He  thinks 
the  world  of  you.  Now  listen.  I've  got  everything  all 
planned.  I  want  you  to  go  right  to  my  house  and  stay  with 
Fred.  Here  are  the  keys."  She  pressed  the  ring  of  keys 
into  Agnes'  hand  with  the  unconscious  whole-heartedness 
which  characterized  her  whenever  she  was  giving. 

Agnes  saw  in  her  face  a  kind  of  fierce  comfort  which  soft 
ened  temporarily  its  reckless  expression.  The  thought  that 
Beatrice  with  entire  self-forgetfulness  was  feeling  a  happi 
ness  because  she  was  able  to  help  Fred,  whom  she  was  leav 
ing,  and  also  Agnes,  who  had  tacitly,  at  least,  cast  her  off, 
filled  Agnes'  heart  to  overflowing.  She  saw,  too,  that  in 
undeceiving  Beatrice  she  would  take  away  the  only  comfort 
left  to  her.  Yet  it  must  be  done. 

While  she  waited,  Beatrice  went  on.  "  I  stopped  down 
town  and  cashed  a  check.  The  bank  was  closed,  but  old 
Tompkins  cashed  it  for  me.  I'm  going  to  leave  half  with 
you.  We  can  settle  about  the  future,  later.  It's  too  late 
for  you  to  go  to  my  house  to-night.  Go  in  the  morning," 
— she  drew  a  deep  breath  and  finished  with  disguised  bitter 
ness — "  and  at  last  I  guess  Aunt  Kate  will  come  there,  too." 
Then  she  checked  her  thoughts  from  dwelling  upon  her  long 
disappointment  over  Mrs.  Sidney's  persistent  refusal  to  live 
with  her,  and  repeated  gently  the  question  she  had  asked  on 
entering  the  house,  "  Tell  me  what  has  happened." 

Agnes  passed  by  the  question  and  took  up  her  cousin's 
words.  "  I  have  made  up  my  mind  that  I  shall  come  to  your 
house,  but  it  shall  be  to  see  you  as  well  as  Fred,"  she 


396  THE    BALLINGTONS 

said  earnestly.  "  Beatrice,  why  do  you  say  '  to  stay  with 
Fred'?" 

"  I  said  we  would  plan  about  the  future  later,"  returned 
Beatrice  restlessly.  "  I'm  going  off  on  a  trip.  There  isn't 
time  to  talk  about  that  now.  I'll  write." 

The  packed  suit-case,  the  telegram  to  Tom,  his  sudden 
disappearance,  Donald's  worry,  and  this  prospective  trip  of 
Beatrice's  confirmed  Agnes'  fear.  If  she  was  to  accomplish 
anything,  she  must  do  it  at  once. 

She  clasped  her  cousin's  hands  with  infinite  pleading.  "  It 
hasn't  been  right  for  us  to  be  separated  as  we  have  been.  I 
never  shall  let  it  occur  again.  Oh,  Beatrice,  things  have  been 
going  wrong — all  wrong — wrong  for  everybody.  We  all 
have  been  to  blame.  But  it  isn't  too  late  yet.  That's  why 
I  sent  for  you.  I  couldn't  come  to  Kent,  or  I  should  have 
done  so,  but  as  soon  as  I'm  up  from  this " 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ? "  interrupted  Beatrice 
brusquely.  Then  suspicion  for  the  first  time  entered  her 
mind.  "  Aren't  you  going  to  leave  Ferdinand  ?  "  She  turned 
threateningly  as  she  put  the  question.  The  tenderness  went 
out  of  her  face,  and  left  it  sharp. 

"  No,"  said  Agnes  slowly,  not  releasing  Beatrice's  hands. 

There  was  a  flare  of  color  in  Beatrice's  face  and  eyes,  and 
her  voice  rang  ominously. 

"  Then  why  did  you  send  for  me?"  She  was  on  her  feet 
and  stood  poised  waiting  for  the  answer  as  for  a  signal. 

Agnes'  fingers  closed  with  no  uncertain  grip  over  the  arm 
she  still  held.  "You  have  a  right  to  be  angry  with  me, 
Beatrice,  but  you're  here  and  you  must  listen  to  me.  Fred 
and  you  both  have  been  wrong,  but  you  are  going  to  ruin 
yourselves  now — and  needlessly,  needlessly.  Fred  has  loved 
you  always,  and  he  does  still." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  getting  me  down  here  to  meddle  in 
my  business ! "  cried  Beatrice  passionately,  trying  to  free 
herself  from  Agnes'  hold.  "Look  at  your  own!"  She  was 
as  rough  as  she  dared  to  be,  but  apprehension  for  Agnes  com 
pelled  her  to  hold  down  her  fury. 


THE    BALLINGTONS  397 

Agnes  drew  Fred's  letter  from  her  dress  and  forced  it 
before  his  wife.  Beatrice  sprang  back  from  her  violently  as 
she  felt  the  hold  on  her  arm  loosen,  and  the  paper  fell  on  the 
floor  between  them. 

"You  must  read  that  letter  before  you  go!  It  is  that 
which  made  me  send  for  you !  " 

The  agony  of  insistence  in  Agnes'  voice  checked  Beatrice. 
She  glanced  down  at  the  paper,  recognized  Fred's  hand 
writing,  and  with  a  gesture  of  refusal  turned  instantly  to  the 
door. 

"  Fred  is  not  doing  chis !  Other  people  are  forcing  him ! 
Mr.  Bucher  is  one !  You  don't  know  what  is  going  on ! " 
Agnes'  voice  was  strained  and  tuneless  as  she  raised  it  in  a 
forlorn  hope. 

Beatrice's  hand  was  on  the  door.  At  the  name  of  Mr. 
Bucher  her  face  blazed  vindictively.  "  Bucher's  always  had 
Fred.  He  can  have  him  in  the  bank  to  all  eternity.  Besides, 
do  you  think  I  am  made  to  live  with  a  man  who  is  influenced 
by  his  employer  against  his  wife ! " 

She  turned  the  knob.  Agnes  rose.  A  faintness  passed 
over  her  and  left  her  face  gray.  Her  lips  opened,  but  she 
said  nothing. 

Beatrice  put  out  her  arm  to  support  her.  "Who  is  here 
to  take  care  of  you?  Where's  the  bell?  I'll  ring." 

"Wait,  Beatrice!"  said  Agnes.  She  shivered.  "Ferdi 
nand  has  done  this.  He  is  using  Bucher  to  ruin  you.  Oh, 
do  not  let  him ! " 

Beatrice  stood  quite  still.  Then  she  turned  around  and 
leaned  her  back  against  the  door,  her  hand  behind  her  still 
on  the  knob.  "  So!  "  she  said.  At  last  another  person  had 
said  in  plain  words  the  truth  about  Ferdinand,  and  this  per 
son  his  own  wife.  A  new  expression  was  coming  into  her 
face.  A  new  current  of  passion  had  struck  across  her  wild 
resentment  toward  her  husband,  and  momentarily  she  was 
adrift  between  the  two.  Agnes'  heart  began  to  beat  heavily 
with  hope.  There  was  a  glimmer  of  returning  attention  in 
Beatrice's  eyes,  a  suggestion  of  struggling  will-power  in  her 


398  THE     BALLINGTONS 

voice  when  a  moment  later  she  said  quickly,  but  in  a  low  tone, 
"  Tell  me  what  you  know ! " 

"  This  is  what  I  believe,"  said  Agnes,  pale  but  unflinch 
ing,  "  and  Fred's  letter  has  confirmed  it." 

Beatrice's  eyes  took  on  a  steadiness  and  glitter. 

"  Since  mother's  house  was  sold  Mr.  Bucher  and  Ferdinand 
have  been  in  very  close  relations.  There  is  nothing  in  which 
Ferdinand's  opinion  does  not  direct  the  old  man.  Hear 
what  Fred  writes."  She  stooped  suddenly  and  picked  up  the 
discarded  letter. 

Beatrice  waited  without  stirring,  and  Agnes  read  aloud: 
"  It  is  impossible  for  me  any  longer  to  ignore  my  plain  duty. 
Bucher  advised  me  some  months  ago ' 

Beatrice  stirred  impatiently,  and  Agnes  hurried  on,  skip 
ping  here  and  there.  "  Bucher  said  he  had  proof  that  Tom 
and  Beatrice  were  originally  engaged,  and  he  told  me  what 
had  broken  it  off.  I  don't  believe  the  latter,  nor  do  I  trust 
the  source  from  which  I  believe  it  came  to  him." 

Agnes'  hand  dropped  to  her  side,  but  her  eyes  met 
Beatrice's  unwaveringly. 

"  There  can  be  no  doubt,"  she  went  on,  "  that  '  the  source  ' 
is  Ferdinand." 

Rage  flamed  in  Beatrice's  face. 

"  Of  course  it's  Ferdinand ! "  she  cried  in  bitter  scorn  of 
her  husband.  "  And  I  told  Fred  all  about  this  long  before 
Bucher  did,  but  he  believes  Bucher's  version." 

"  No !  no !  "  interrupted  Agnes. 

"  He  believes  it  of  me,  now !  He  has  told  me  so.  It's  a 
pity  he  should  be  disappointed.  When  Ferdinand  slurred 
me  to  Tom,  Tom  came  straight  to  me  and  asked  me  to  marry 
him.  He  knew  what  to  believe  about  me.  That's  the  differ 
ence  between  him  and  Fred.  I  refused  Tom  because  I  didn't 
want  him,  but  since  I've  lived  with  Fred  I've  come  to  appre 
ciate  him  better.  I  could  have  made  something  of  Tom. 
I'll  do  it  yet.  Fred  shall  see ! " 

"  Beatrice ! "  cried  Agnes,  "  don't  you  see  you  are  going 
to  do  yourself  what  Ferdinand  has  tried  to  bring  about,  and 


THE    BALLINGTONS  399 

failed?  Ferdinand  hates  Fred  almost  as  much  as  he  hates 
you.  I  don't  know  why.  He  wants  to  break  up  your  home." 

Beatrice  gave  a  short  laugh,  stopped.  A  thought  flashed 
into  her  mind.  She  then  looked  keenly  at  Agnes. 

"  You  want  to  influence  me  to  go  back  home.  There  is  one 
way  you  can  do  it.  Put  on  your  things,  come  back  with  me, 
tell  Fred  what  you  have  told  me  and  make  him  leave  Bucher. 
That  will  square  me  off  with  Ferdinand,  I  guess." 

As  Agnes  returned  the  gaze,  she  saw  dawning  in  Beatrice's 
face  an  expression  of  triumph.  She  connected  it  with 
Beatrice's  threat  to  Ferdinand  the  last  time  she  was  in  his 
house  that  his  wife  should  come  to  her.  At  last  she  was 
seeing  her  way  to  accomplish  it. 

"  Beatrice,"  Agnes  implored,  "  do  you  wish  to  break  up 
my  home  as  the  price  of  preserving  yours?  You  offer  to  go 
back  for  hatred  and  revenge.  What  kind  of  a  reunion  with 
Fred  will  that  be?" 

Beatrice  clicked  her  watchcase  and  turned  to  the  door. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said. 

Agnes  stepped  forward.  The  determination  to  say  what 
she  was  going  to  say  gave  a  meaning  to  her  gaze  which 
Beatrice  respected  by  delaying. 

"  If  you  take  this  step,  you  give  the  world  grounds  to  say 
truly  what  Ferdinand  has  said  falsely.  More  than  all 
this," — Agnes  came  still  nearer  as  she  spoke, — "  it  means 
life-long  suffering  to  you.  You  wanted  to  make  Fred  happy, 
and  might  have  made  him  happy — I  know  you  loved 
him!" 

"  Love !  "  said  Beatrice  furiously.  "  Fiddle-de-dee !  Love 
hasn't  anything  to  do  with  our  real  selves  or  with  the  right 
and  wrong  of  things.  You  loved  Ferdinand,  and  it  made  you 
idiot  enough  to  marry  him.  You  could  get  on  a  good  deal 
better  with  Donald,  couldn't  you?  I  dare  say  you've  thought 
about  that.  Well,  so  can  I  get  on  better  with  Tom  than  with 
Fred,  and  I've  got  sense  enough  to  do  it ! " 

The  reckless  words,  with  their  sharp  question  to  herself, 
shocked  Agnes  momentarily  into  silence. 


400  THE     BALLINGTONS 

Then  she  said  steadily,  "It  is  true  there  is  something 
which  can  overmaster  a  man  and  woman  when  it  has  little 
or  nothing  to  do  with  the  real  life  of  the  mind  or  spirit.  But 
that  is  not  love.  Love  suffereth  long  and  is  kind.  Oh, 
Beatrice,  the  only  way  to  know  any  happiness  in  this  life  is 
in  self-sacrifice.  It  seems  as  if  we  each  must  give  up  just  the 
thing  we  want  to  keep  the  most.  I  know  Fred  is  unyielding. 
I  know  how  disappointed  and  how  hurt  you  have  been,  and 
how  you've  tried " 

The  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes  as  she  spoke.  Beatrice  saw 
them  and  she  put  her  hand  up  to  her  throat,  but  her  eyes 
were  dry. 

Agnes  struggled  on.  "  I  know  that  when  we're  hurt  so 
much — when  things  we  long  for — feel  we  must  have — 
can't  be  ours — it's  so  hard — we  give  up  trying  to  be  good. 
We  sin." 

Her  voice  was  low,  no  longer  strained,  but  broken  rather 
by  suffering,  self -revelation,  a  beseeching  so  intense  that 
every  other  feeling  was  lost  in  it. 

"  So  great  a  sin  as  this  can  bring  to  a  woman  like  you  only 
unending  woe.  You  have  tried  to  do  right,  but,  if  you  have 
been  unhappy  doing  that,  no  words  can  tell  what  you  will 
suffer  in  sinning.  There's  no  other  torture  so  terrible  as  the 
consciousness  of  guilt.  You  think  you  are  going  to  live  now, 
but  life  will  be  less  than  nothing  to  you.  I  know  this,  and 
I  would  willingly  die  if  I  could  save  you  and  Fred  and  Tom 
from  this  frightful  mistake." 

Agnes'  voice  shook  and  stopped  on  the  last  word.  As  the 
two  looked  at  each  other,  the  recklessness  of  Beatrice  was 
dominated  by  the  endurance  of  Agnes.  The  dark  face 
quivered  and  broke  into  agony. 

Agnes  leaned  forward,  trembling,  to  catch  the  words  of 
self -conquest  which  she  knew  were  coming.  The  glory  of 
salvation  was  almost  upon  them. 

It  was  checked  by  a  sound  outside.  Someone  was  coming 
up  the  front  steps.  They  heard  the  sound  of  a  key  in  the 
lock,  the  opening  and  shutting  of  the  front  door.  They  still 


THE    BALLINGTONS  401 

looked  at  each  other,  but  their  faces  changed  as  they  stood 
listening. 

Ferdinand's  step  came  down  the  hall,  hesitating  now  and 
then.  Apparently  he  looked  first  in  the  library;  then  he 
re-entered  the  hall  and  approached  the  green  room.  An 
instant  later  the  knob  turned  and  the  door  struck  against  the 
figure  of  Beatrice. 

With  a  faint  lifting  of  the  eyebrows  at  Agnes  she  moved 
aside,  and  Ferdinand  entered  the  room. 

He  glanced  from  Beatrice  to  his  wife,  on  whom  his  eyes 
rested  for  some  moments  before  he  spoke.  Then  he  asked, 
"  Is  this  visit  with  your  permission  ?  " 

"  It  is  at  my  request." 

Ferdinand  turned  to  Beatrice.  "  In  that  case,  I  have  only 
to  say  to  you,  Mrs.  Sidney,  that  you  may  consider  your  call 
at  an  end." 

"  Not  until  I  have  finished  talking  to  her,  Ferdinand," 
said  Agnes,  laying  a  detaining  hand  upon  Beatrice's  arm. 
"  She  must  not  go  yet.  Either  leave  us  here,  or  I  shall  take 
her  to  my  room." 

Beatrice  did  not  speak,  but  her  brows  rested  over  her  eyes 
as  she  looked  at  Ferdinand.  At  the  sight  of  him,  the  old 
defiance  rose  again,  gained  possession  of  her  and  turned  the 
full  tide  of  her  new  emotions  away  from  the  vision  of 
renunciation  into  a  permanent  and  dangerous  enmity. 

There  was  something  terrible  even  to  Ferdinand  in  the 
daring,  the  malignity,  and  the  power  of  her  pose  and  expres 
sion.  Everything  else  had  sunk  into  the  background  as  she 
found  herself  thus  unexpectedly  face  to  face  with  her  foe. 
He  knew  that  if  she  could  once  get  an  advantage  over  him 
she  would  use  it  mercilessly.  Agnes'  astounding  move  in 
inviting  her  to  his  home,  coupled  with  his  wife's  open  opposi 
tion  when  discovered,  seemed  giving  Beatrice  this  dangerous 
advantage.  On  the  very  verge  of  domestic  and  social  ruin 
old  Mott's  daughter  had  turned  into  a  formidable  menace  to 
his  own  home.  Hitherto  in  his  differences  with  Agnes  he  had 
felt  assured  of  his  authority  and  ultimate  success.  Now,  how- 


402  THE     BALLINGTONS 

ever,  Agnes  seemed  uniting  with  the  rebellious  nature  whom 
he  always  had  the  instinct  to  crush  and  thrust  out  of  the 
way.  His  anger  against  Agnes  was  extreme. 

He  made  up  his  mind  at  once,  and  he  replied  instantly, 
"  I  forbid  you  a  single  word  more  with  this  woman.  Go  up 
to  your  room  alone." 

There  was  a  moment's  dead  silence. 

Then  Agnes  said  in  a  voice  equally  clear,  "  Very  well,  then. 
Since  you  compel  me  to  address  her  only  through  you,  I  must 
ask  you  if  you  ever  told  Mr.  Bucher  that  Beatrice  married 
Fred  because  you  had  broken  off  relations  between  her  and 
Tom  ?  If  you  do  not  answer,  I  shall  telephone  at  once  to  Mr. 
Bucher  and  ask  him." 

"I  shall  not  allow  you  to  excite  yourself,  either  over  a 
conversation  with  me,  or  by  telephone  with  Mr.  Bucher," 
answered  Ferdinand.  "  Mrs.  Sidney  must  leave  this  house 
peaceably  at  once,  or  I  must  compel  her  to  leave."  The 
impulse  toward  brute  force  was  rising  within  him. 

Beatrice's  lip  curled.  She  turned  with  dignity  to  Agnes. 
"  Agnes,  I'm  going,  but  it's  not  because  I'm  afraid.  If  you 
will  come  with  me,  I  will  go  home  with  you.  I  will  give  you 
a  suitable  income  and  back  you  up  in  whatever  you  see  fit  to 
do.  You  will  be  sorry  if  you  don't  take  my  offer."  She  said 
the  last  words  slowly  and  meaningly.  A  pause  followed  them. 
Ferdinand  looked  at  his  wife  steadily  and  opened  the  door. 
Agnes  understood  the  mute  reiteration  of  his  demand  upon 
her.  In  a  flash  she  saw  the  intolerable  consequences  of  both 
alternatives.  If  she  only  could  know  her  duty  she  would  do 
it!  Instincts  inherited  from  her  ancestry  seemed  crying  out 
that  she  must  stay.  Her  passion  to  save  Beatrice  wrestled 
with  them,  but  though  Beatrice  and  Ferdinand  both  waited 
for  her  decision,  she  did  not  speak,  would  not  speak,  till,  word 
by  word,  her  reason  directed  what  she  should  say. 

"As  soon  as  I  can,  I  will  come  to  you,  Beatrice." 

Ferdinand's  voice  struck  in  on  the  last  word.  "  If  you  are 
going,  why  do  you  not  go  now  ?  " 

Agnes   turned   toward   him.     "  Because,"    she   replied    at 


THE     BALLINGTONS  403 

once,  "  I  believe  you  would  use  it  against  Beatrice.  If  I  go, 
I  shall  go  by  myself  for  reasons  which  are  independent  of 
others." 

Beatrice  stopped  her  with  a  passionate  gesture.  "Always 
talk!  Nothing  but  talk!  You  Sidneys  are  all  alike.  You 
stick  by  the  things  that  ruin  you.  You  insult  and  throw 
away  what  tries  to  be  good  to  you.  Now,  by  God !  I've  done 
with  the  lot  of  you ! " 

She  rushed  out,  slamming  the  door.  Agnes  called  to  her 
and  started  to  follow,  but  Ferdinand  stepped  between  her  and 
the  door,  barring  the  way.  Agnes  seized  his  arm  and  strove 
with  all  her  strength  to  fling  him  aside.  He  was  immovable. 
They  heard  the  front  door  torn  open,  and  Beatrice's  stum 
bling  steps  hurrying  down  the  walk. 

Both  knew  that  she  was  going  to  Tom. 


CHAPTER  VII 

AGNES  went  to  the  dining-room  and  poured  herself  out  a 
•^  glass  of  wine.  The  fear  that  she  might  faint  and  so  lose 
the  chances  that  were  left  to  her  to  save  Beatrice  made  her 
move  slowly  and  carefully,  but  she  did  not  blunder. 

When  she  returned  to  the  hall  she  found  Ferdinand  near 
the  telephone.  He  anticipated  her  intention,  and  spoke  to 
her  at  once  as  she  came  up  to  it.  "  Considering  your  state 
of  mind,  I  forbid  you  to  use  this  telephone." 

She  turned  away  from  him,  rang  the  bell  for  her  maid,  and 
ordered  the  horses. 

As  the  girl  was  leaving,  Ferdinand  stopped  her. 

"  You  need  not  give  that  order,"  he  said  incisively.  "  You 
may  say  instead  that  my  horses  are  not  to  leave  the  barn 
to-day." 

The  girl  looked  blankly  from  the  mistress  to  the  master  of 
the  house. 

Agnes  again  turned  without  comment  and  went  upstairs  to 
her  room. 

The  summons  to  dinner  came  while  she  was  gone.  Ferdinand 
disregarded  it,  and  silenced  the  maid  when  she  came  a  second 
time. 

Presently  Agnes  came  down  dressed  for  the  street.  Ferdi 
nand  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  lower  hall.  This  time  she 
spoke  first.  "  You  have  gone  as  far  as  you  can  with  me,  Fer 
dinand.  Do  not  attempt  to  stop  me  from  leaving  this  house. 
When  I  come  back  we  will  talk  things  over  finally." 

"You  shall  not  leave  the  house  to-day.  You  are  unfit  to 
in  every  way."  The  determination  of  Ferdinand's  voice  was 
unmistakable. 

Agnes  came  up  to  him  and  stopped.     "  I  shall  leave  the 

house  at  once,  Ferdinand.    You  must  let  me  pass " 

404 


THE     BALLINGTONS  405 

For  answer  Ferdinand  threw  his  right  arm  about  her,  seized 
both  her  hands  in  his  left,  and  half-carried,  half -forced  her 
to  the  stairs. 

As  he  put  his  foot  on  the  first  step,  Agnes  spoke  to  him. 
"  You  hurt  me.  Let  me  alone  and  I  will  go  up  quietly." 

He  released  his  hold  with  a  feeling  of  relief  that  the  turn 
ing-point  had  come,  supported  her  up  the  stairs  and  to  the 
door  of  her  room. 

As  she  entered  his  hand  felt  for  the  key ;  then  he  remem 
bered  that  one  of  the  children  had  lost  it  a  few  days  before 
and  that  it  had  not  been  replaced. 

Agnes  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room  watching  him. 

As  his  eyes  met  hers  he  spoke  deliberately.  "  I  want  you  to 
give  me  your  word  of  honor  that  you  will  not  leave  this  room 
to-night." 

Agnes  bowed  her  head,  "  I  will  stay." 

Ferdinand  looked  at  her  a  moment  longer ;  then  he  started 
to  go  out.  As  he  was  closing  the  door  he  turned  back,  "  I  will 
send  up  your  dinner,  and  if  there  is  anything  that  you  desire 
I  will  see  that  you  have  it." 

He  waited  for  an  answer.    There  was  none. 

As  he  went  down  the  stairs  the  excitement  which  had  pos 
sessed  him  for  the  last  half  hour  faded,  and  an  anxious 
foreboding  which  he  never  before  had  known  settled  upon 
him.  He  went  into  the  library,  leaving  the  door  open,  picked 
up  the  evening  paper,  glanced  it  over,  then  went  out  to  the 
dining-room. 

The  children  were  already  at  the  table  eating,  and  the  maid 
apologetically  explained  that  it  was  past  their  dinner  hour 
and  that  Miss  Margaret  would  not  be  home  till  later.  Ferdi 
nand  sent  Agnes'  dinner  up  to  her.  Then  he  and  the  children 
ate  in  silence. 

He  observed  a  puzzled  expression  on  the  maid's  face  when, 
she  came  downstairs,  but  he  attributed  the  girl's  manner  to 
her  mystification  at  the  events  of  the  afternoon. 

After  he  had  finished  dinner,  he  sent  the  children  up  to  bed, 
and  returned  to  the  library.  He  had  been  reading  some  time, 


406  THE     BALLINGTONS 

when  he  heard  a  carriage  drive  up  to  the  door.  Thinking  it 
was  Aunt  Margaret  returning,  he  read  on  for  a  half  hour  or 
so.  Then  his  attention  was  caught  by  the  sound  of  a  second 
carriage  stopping  in  front  of  the  house. 

He  laid  down  his  paper  and  went  uneasily  to  the  door  lead 
ing  into  the  hall.  An  unsteady  hand  was  fumbling  with  the 
latch-key,  the  carriage  drove  off,  and  presently  the  door 
opened  and  his  aunt  stood  on  the  threshold. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  be  so  late,  dear,"  she  began,  conscious  of  sin 
as  usual,  "  but  Agnes  told  me  to  stay  as  late  as  ever  I  wished." 

Ferdinand  turned  without  replying  and  went  back  to  the 
library.  Who  had  come  in  the  first  carriage  and  entered  with 
out  ringing?  Agnes  had  gone  out  while  he  was  at  dinner! 

While  he  stood  collecting  his  thoughts  for  a  renewal  of  the 
struggle  between  them,  the  maid  came  and  tapped  timidly  at 
the  door. 

"  Mrs.  Ballington  wishes  to  see  you  at  once,  sir,"  she  said, 
and  withdrew  as  soon  as  she  had  spoken. 

Ferdinand  stood  a  moment  longer,  then,  with  a  look  of 
determination,  turned  and  went  upstairs. 

As  he  pushed  open  the  door,  he  saw  Agnes  sitting  before 
her  desk  as  though  she  had  been  writing.  The  window  back 
of  the  desk  was  still  open,  although  the  warm  spring  air  had 
taken  on  the  chill  of  night.  The  faintest  odor  of  apple  bloom 
was  in  the  air.  As  Agnes  turned  in  her  chair  and  looked 
across  the  room  at  her  husband,  he  was  aware,  as  he  met  her 
still  gaze,  of  the  same  coolness  and  the  same  faint  sweetness 
in  her  that  seemed  to  permeate  the  room.  The  beauty  of 
outline  of  her  face  was  conspicuous  now  that  her  color  was 
gone. 

"  Ferdinand,"  she  said,  after  a  moment  during  which  she 
had  been  silently  regarding  him,  "  I  have  sent  for  the  doctor 
and  the  nurse  to  come.  I  also  have  sent  to  Kent  for  my  mother 
and  Dr.  Quinn.  Miss  Elmore  ought  to  be  here  soon.  I 
wanted  to  say  what  I  have  to  say  before  she  comes." 

"  You  broke  your  word  and  left  the  house  while  I  was  at 
dinner." 


THE    BALLINGTONS  407 

Ferdinand  made  the  statement  like  an  automaton. 

Agnes  considered  him  curiously.  "  Yes,"  she  said,  as 
though  it  were  a  matter  of  no  moment,  "  I  had  to  go,  and 
there  was  no  other  way." 

Ferdinand's  anger  rose  at  her  indifference.  "  Agnes,"  he 
said  sharply,  "  your  repeated  lies,  disobedience,  and  deceit 
have  become  insupportable.  What  such  a  man  as  Fred  Sid 
ney  cannot  tolerate  in  his  wife  I  certainly  will  not  endure  in 
mine.  Your  conduct  to-day  can  be  condoned  only  on  the 
theory  that  you  are  not  responsible  now.  But  I  tell  you,  once 
for  all,  that  no  such  excuse  will  serve  you  in  the  future. 
Where  did  you  go  after  leaving  the  house?  " 

"  I  went  to  the  livery-stable  and  hired  a  boy  to  drive  me  to 
Donald  Ballington." 

Ferdinand's  face  flushed. 

"  The  man  who  has  repeatedly  given  you  money  without 
my  knowledge." 

"  Once  only,  Ferdinand,"  she  corrected  him,  without  emo 
tion.  "  It  came  to  me  in  such  a  way  that  it  seemed  as  though 
I  must  take  it.  I  used  very  little  of  it  for  myself.  It  was  a 
wedding-gift  to  me  in  my  father's  name." 

"  This  is  a  surprise,"  said  Ferdinand  cynically.  "  Eliza 
told  me'  of  a  sum  Donald  gave  you  when  she  left.  How  do 
you  reconcile  that  with  your  statement  that  he  has  given  you 
money  but  once?  " 

"  The  second  sum  was  not  for  me.  It  was  borrowed  by 
Aunt  Margaret.  She  has  nearly  paid  it  back." 

"  How  much  more  have  you  had  from  him?  "  persisted  Fer 
dinand  brutally.  "  And  what  have  you  given  in  return  ?  A 
good  deal  has  passed  between  you.  I  believe  that  you  asked 
him  to  keep  your  husband  away  from  home  long  enough  for 
you  to  entertain  his  brother's  mistress." 

Still  Agnes  regarded  her  husband  with  a  grave  serenity 
which  galled  him  inexpressibly.  Nothing  he  could  say  seemed 
to  reach  her.  "  I  said  Donald  has  given  me  money  but  once," 
she  replied.  "  I  never  have  done  anything  for  him.  I  wish 
I  had." 


408  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Ferdinand  took  a  step  nearer  to  her.  His  voice  sank  to  a 
menace.  "  Since  we  are  started,  you  may  as  well  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it.  You  have  several  times  dropped  covert  hints, 
both  in  your  speech  and  in  writing,  of  things  in  your  past 
which  you  could  not  tell  me.  In  view  of  what  I  have  found 
out  myself,  I  insist  upon  knowing  the  rest." 

Agnes  waited  a  moment ;  then  she  said  slowly,  "  I  am  willing 
to  tell  you  everything  now.  Donald's  gift  was  one  of  the 
things  I  could  not  tell  you.  The  other  is  this.  I  have  always 
considered  that  my  neglect  and  giddiness  while  my  mother 
was  away  from  home  were  responsible  for  my  father's  death." 

Ferdinand  waited  for  her  to  go  on.  When  she  did  not,  he 
continued.  "  Putting  together  what  you  have  confessed  and 
what  I  have  discovered,  the  fatal  results  of  your  giddiness  as 
a  girl,  your  intimacy  after  marriage  with  an  old  lover,  your 
falsified  accounts  of  household  money,  your  shameless  deceit 
and  open  defiance  of  this  afternoon,  and  your  unequivocal  lie 
this  evening — these  things,  taken  together  with  a  perpetual 
course  of  politic  equivocation,  by  which  you  have  attempted 
to  baffle  me  in  my  control  of  my  own  aunt  and  children,  and 
a  swarm  of  petty  swervings  of  the  truth  on  every  conceivable 
occasion,  have  brought  me  to  the  point  at  which  I  can  no 
longer  place  any  reliance  upon  what  you  say.  Nothing  but 
lack  of  money  has  kept  you  from  being  a  second  Beatrice 
Mott.  If  you  had  had  her  liberty  you  would  be  where 
she  is." 

When  he  stopped  Agnes  looked  at  him  as  though  waiting 
for  him  to  continue.  When  he  did  not,  she  said,  without  a 
tremor  in  her  voice,  "  I  know  that  for  just  so  much  as  I  have 
sinned  I  must  answer." 

Then  a  certain  exaltation  came  into  her  face — her  father's 
look.  "  I  have  done  at  last  with  all  that  falsehood  and  equivo 
cation.  I  never  have  been  what  you  say  I  have,  but  it  is  true 
I  have  sometimes  lied.  I  always  have  wanted  to  be  as  sincere 
as  my  father  and  as  honest  as  my  mother.  My  marriage  with 
you  entangled  my  relations  with  everybody  so  that  in  order 
to  be  true  with  myself  I  would  have  had  to  injure  my  mother, 


THE    BALLINGTONS  409 

my  children,  my  sister,  Aunt  Margaret  and  more  than  one 
of  my  best  friends.  It  seemed  to  me  selfish  to  prefer  my  honor 
before  their  well-being.  No  one  knows  what  I  have  suffered. 
I  thought  it  was  inevitable.  I  see  now  that  my  own  blindness 
caused  the  situation." 

"  You  have  been  blind  a  good  deal  of  the  time  since  I  mar 
ried  you,"  said  Ferdinand  when  she  stopped  a  moment  as 
though  considering. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  gravely,  and  paused  again.  She  was 
listening  to  another  voice  than  Ferdinand's,  which  was  saying : 
*  You  will  live  in  that  world  more  and  more,  and,  though  in  a 
different  way  than  you  think,  I  doubt  not  with  me.'  Far  as 
she  had  traveled  from  her  father's  creed,  how  irresistibly  had 
she  journeyed  home  to  him  in  that  spiritual  progress,  which 
now  seemed  to  be  the  whole  of  life. 

After  a  moment  she  went  on  again  in  the  same  quiet 
voice : 

"  I  cannot  live  with  you  and  be  true  to  anything.  There  is 
just  one  thing  we  must  live  our  lives  for,  and  that  is  truth. 
It  isn't  joy,  no  matter  how  much  the  soul  longs  for  it,  and  it 
isn't  love,  no  matter  how  dark  the  world  is  without  it.  Nor 
is  it  hope  or  faith,  no  matter  how  desolate  the  life  may  be 
that  never  has  found  them.  With  all  these  things,  but  with 
out  truth,  life  is  a  failure.  But  without  all  those,  and  with 
truth,  life  is  triumphant.  What  is  done,  is  done.  I  know 
now  how  to  do  better." 

Scorn  was  in  Ferdinand's  voice  as  he  interrupted,  "What 
is  this  theatrical  announcement  for?  " 

Agnes  stood  up  with  an  effort,  shut  her  desk,  and  leaned 
against  it  for  a  few  minutes,  her  face  away  from  him. 

He  knew  that  she  was  suffering  intense  physical  pain,  and 
for  the  first  time  under  such  circumstances  he  felt  no  sympa 
thy  with  her.  When  at  last  she  turned  toward  him  again, 
he  noticed  with  the  same  absence  of  emotion  the  exhaustion 
in  her  face. 

"  The  only  possible  way  I  could  have  helped  you  was  to  have 
left  you.  I  have  done  the  worst  thing  for  you  as  well  as  for 


410  THE    BALLINGTONS 

all  the  rest  of  us  by  living  here.  I  have  attempted  to  palliate 
and  neutralize  what  I  ought  to  have  renounced,  and  you  have 
hardened  in  the  course  which  I  accepted.  Loyalty  is  a 
duty,  but  only  when  harmonious  with  truth  and  honor.  The 
time  has  come  when  I  must  make  my  duty  square  with  my 
conscience.  If  you  had  changed,  or  if  I  had  helped  you  in 
any  way,  I  should  know  that  I  ought  to  stay." 

She  hesitated.  She  was  studying  his  face  for  the  last  time, 
and,  as  she  did  so,  suddenly  another  face  grew  out  of  it — the 
face  of  Estelle  Landseer.  How  different  might  have  been  the 
course  of  her  husband's  life  if  had  not  been  cut  off  in 
infancy  from  that  strong  and  conscience-ruled  mother-love. 
What  miracle  might  not  a  mother's  love  and  wisdom  achieve 
if  it  were  allowed  space  to  work! — and  a  third  face,  that  of 
her  little  Stephen  rose  before  her. 

An  infinite  yearning  came  into  her  eyes  with  the  revelation 
at  last  that  Infinite  Love  is  also  infinite  justice,  that  He  does 
not  express  Himself  in  paradoxes  or  issue  conflicting 
demands.  Her  belief  was  as  strong  as  ever  that  neither  law 
of  man  nor  death  itself  could  annul  the  bond  of  marriage, 
but  she  believed,  also,  that  the  faithful  fulfillment  of  the  law 
of  love  demanded  not  that  she  stay  with  her  husband,  but 
that  she  leave  him. 

Her  next  words  fell  gently,  but  finally.  "  I  shall  have  to 
stay  here,  Ferdinand,  until  after  our  last  child  is  born. 
Then,  to  be  true  to  you  as  much  as  to  myself,  I  shall  take 
the  children  and  go  away." 

"  Where  do  you  intend  to  go  ?  " 

"To  my  mother's    farm.      Afterwards  I  shall  get  work." 

Ferdinand  laughed,  but  it  was  a  mirthless  laugh.  "  Don't 
you  know,  Agnes,"  he  said,  "  that  a  woman  who  leaves  her 
husband  has  no  claims  whatever  upon  him?  He  can  divorce 
her." 

"I  know  that  you  will  divorce  me." 

"  I  can  keep  the  children,  too." 

She  did  not  move  or  speak  for  some  seconds,  and  Ferdi 
nand  would  have  felt  that  at  last  he  could  dictate  to  her,  had 


THE    BALLINGTONS  411 

it  not  been  for  the  absent  expression  of  Agnes'  face.  Her 
eyes  were  resting  on  a  bunch  of  early  dandelions  which  filled 
a  little  mug  that  stood  on  the  desk.  He  knew  that  the  chil 
dren  had  placed  them  there  that  morning,  and  he  noticed  that 
the  flowers  were  shut  up  for  the  night.  Presently  he  saw  her 
reach  out  and  touch  the  closed  blossoms  gently,  but  he  did 
not  know  that  the  sight  of  them  had  carried  her  mind  out 
beyond  the  walls  which  sheltered  the  sleeping  children  to  the 
wide,  quiet  fields  where  the  flowers  considered  not,  yet  were 
watched  and  fostered  by  that  deliberate  and  infinite  Power 
which  makes  forever  for  beauty  and  righteousness.  Her  fin 
gers  closed  over  the  buds  involuntarily,  as  she  lifted  her  eyes 
again  to  her  husband's. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  be  able  to 
support  them,  and  my  reputation  is  good." 

She  withdrew  her  hand  abruptly,  made  a  slight  gesture, 
half  of  pain,  half  of  dismissal,  then  crossed  the  room  slowly 
to  the  bed  and  sat  down  near  the  foot. 

"  You  forget  that  my  reputation  is  also  good,"  said  Ferdi 
nand  harshly.  "  How  will  you  support  my  children  ?  " 

She  did  not  look  up. 

"  I  asked  you,"  he  repeated,  "  how  you  intend  to  support 
my  children?  Have  you  consulted  Donald?  " 

She  lifted  her  head  and  they  faced  each  other.  Ferdinand 
felt  a  start  of  alarm  as  he  caught  sight  of  a  glitter  in  her 
eyes.  It  seemed  struggling  with  a  darkness  which  was  slowly 
blotting  out  intelligence,  to  leave  in  her  look  only  the  fright 
of  mortal  pain.  He  understood  that  she  was  making  a  su 
preme  effort  to  keep  her  mind  clear,  and  he  wondered  if  she 
had  heard  or  realized  the  full  insult  of  his  question. 

The  cloud  wavered,  receded,  and  Agnes'  spirit  gathered 
itself  in  a  brightness  so  intolerable  that  Ferdinand  glanced 
away. 

"  I  have  thought  it  through  to  the  end ! "  she  said  in  a  voice 
that  shook  with  a  triumph  and  freedom  as  unendurable  as  was 
the  brilliance  in  her  eyes. 

Ferdinand  compelled  himself  to  meet  her  gaze  again,  and 


412  THE    BALLINGTONS 

after  a  moment  of  torture  under  the  supernal  radiance  that 
streamed  into  his  shrinking  sight,  he  was  conscious  of  relief. 
The  light  in  her  eyes  went  out,  she  looked  at  him  a  moment 
longer,  unrecognizing,  unseeing,  with  the  wide  eyes  of  the 
dying,  then  her  head  dropped  upon  the  hands  which  gripped 
the  brass  pillar  of  the  bed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

l\/f  IRIAM  finished  her  work  in  Paris  and  started  for  the 
French  coast  with  a  feeling  that  her  future  was  assured. 
During  the  hard-working  term  of  serious  apprenticeship  in 
New  York  her  friends  had  seen  that  her  progress  was  sure 
and  swift,  but  she  herself  had  not  indulged  in  many  hopes  as 
to  her  professional  career.  She  had  paid  quite  as  much  atten 
tion  while  she  worked  to  her  father's  blunt  criticisms  as  she 
did  to  those  of  her  masters.  During  the  period  in  Paris 
there  seemed  to  come  suddenly  an  ability  to  make  the  clay 
take  the  shapes  she  had  been  possessed  to  create  ever  since 
childhood.  Only  time  and  strength  were  needed  now — the 
power  of  creation  in  marble  and  metal  was  the,re.  She  chafed 
at  delays  necessary  to  give  her  body  rest.  But  it  was  with  a 
different  feeling  that  she  turned  her  face  homeward  in  the 
spring.  The  holiday  was  well  earned,  and  all  that  she  most 
wished  was  waiting  for  her,  a  sailing  trip  across  the  Atlantic 
with  her  father,  a  class  reunion  at  Winston  during  the  sum 
mer-school  session,  and  then  a  quiet  month  with  Agnes. 

There  were  three  days  before  Captain  Cass'  schooner  was 
to  reach  Brest,  and  Miriam  took  the  occasion  to  accept  an 
invitation  from  some  Russian  friends  to  stop  in  Finistere 
and  visit  the  governmental  laboratories.  Professor  Kolensky, 
who  had  been  busy  all  winter  at  the  Pasteur  Institute,  was  to 
have  charge  of  the  summer-school  at  Roscoff,  and  the  chance 
of  seeing  once  more  at  first  hand  something  of  the  scientific 
investigation  which  always  had  held  her  interest,  decided 
Miriam  upon  the  roundabout  trip  to  Brest. 

The  Kolenskys  met  her  at  the  station,  and  they  drove  to 
gether  in  the  diligence  down  the  long  road  to  the  little  Breton 
town  crowded  on  a  point  of  land  jutting  out  into  the  English 
channel. 

*  413 


414  THE     BALLINGTONS 

"  This  is  about  the  last  place  in  the  world  to  which  I  ever 
expected  to  come,"  Miriam  said  as  she  looked  out  at  the  few 
rows  of  little  stone  houses,  and  then  up  at  the  big  whitewashed 
building  called  "  La  Maison  Blanche,"  at  which  they  were 
alighting. 

"  We  are  very  Parisian  here,  though,"  one  of  the  Profes 
sor's  daughters  returned  in  her  mellow  French,  "  and  we  are 
to  have  a  table  d'hote  in  your  honor  to-night  which  will  be 
something  magnificent.  Here  comes  Madame  Julie  now." 

They  went  up  into  the  large  dining-room  whose  wooden 
walls  were  decorated  with  old  china,  seaweed,  and  shells,  and 
Miriam  looked  with  delight  at  the  peasants  in  their  dark  suits 
and  blue  sashes. 

As  they  sat  down  at  the  table  reserved  for  their  party,  a 
man  who  had  been  eating  alone  at  a  distant  table  rose  and  left 
the  room.  He  did  not  look  toward  them,  but  Miriam  caught 
sight  of  his  back  just  as  he  was  passing  through  the  door 
way,  and  started.  "  Who  is  that  ?  "  she  asked  involuntarily. 

The  Kolenskys  smiled.  Professor  Kolensky  explained  that 
the  man  was  an  American  who  had  gained  such  an  eccentric 
name  for  himself  in  the  few  days  he  had  been  there  that 
Madame  Julie  had  been  jesting  with  them  about  bringing 
another  American  into  the  house. 

Miriam  heard  their  courteous  after-remarks  about  Ameri 
cans,  abstractedly.  When  she  left  the  table  and  walked  across 
the  road  to  the  terrace  where  coffee  was  being  served,  she 
began  to  look  nervously  among  the  guests  seated  at  little 
stands  under  the  pavilion  which  stretched  across  one  side  of 
the  garden. 

At  the  very  last  table  at  the  other  end  of  the  terrace  her 
eyes  found  the  American.  He  was  sitting  with  his  back 
toward  the  others,  his  coffee  and  brandy  apparently  un 
touched  on  the  little  table  before  him.  He  seemed  to  be  only 
half  conscious  of  his  surroundings  as  he  looked  at  the  sea. 

Miriam  watched  him  as  she  sipped  her  coffee  and  heard  the 
Kolenskys  eagerly  discuss  an  octopus  hunt  that  was  to  take 
place  the  next  morning.  After  a  time  she  turned  to  the  Pro- 


THE    BALLINGTONS  415 

fessor  and  said,  "  I  believe  that  man  is  someone  I  know.  I 
am  going  down  to  speak  to  him." 

"  Ask  him  to  go  octopus  hunting  with  us  to-morrow,"  said 
the  naturalist  kindly,  in  his  monotonous  treble. 

Miriam  walked  swiftly  down  the  terrq.ce.  Before  she 
reached  the  end  of  it  she  had  lost  the  sense  of  strangeness 
and  anxiety  that  she  had  been  feeling  as  she  had  watched  him 
a  few  minutes  before.  That  excitement  had  changed  to  one 
of  eagerness.  She  was  going  to  see  him,  was  going  to  hear 
of  Agnes — and  now,  instead  of  waiting  six  weeks.  All  the 
longings  she  had  been  holding  off  ever  since  she  left  Paris 
began  to  rush  in  upon  her,  as  she  stopped  just  before  his 
chair. 

"  Tom !  "  she  said. 

The  man  made  a  spasmodic  shove  back  from  the  table  and 
turned  around. 

If  Miriam  had  the  advantage  of  Tom  in  not  being  taken 
off  her  guard,  it  was  more  than  made  up  for  when  she  saw 
his  face.  She  had  remembered  Tom  Ballington's  look  with 
pleasure.  Whatever  shortcomings  he  had,  they  had  not 
been  registered  in  his  face.  That  was  frank,  responsive, 
and  lovable.  But  she  wondered,  as  she  looked  at  it  now, 
whether  it  contained  more  ugliness  or  more  woe.  All  the 
ruddy  look  which  she  had  liked  so  much  seemed  to  have 
blackened,  and  now  as  the  blood  rose  from  his  neck,  it  blotched 
the  skin  with  purple. 

Tom  put  up  his  hand  and  loosened  his  collar. 

"  Where  did  you  come  from?  "  he  blurted  out,  shaking  the 
glasses  as  he  backed  against  the  table. 

"  I  came  from  Paris  this  evening." 

"  How  did  you  know  I  was  here  ?  "  he  continued. 

"  I  did  not  know  it.  I  saw  you  just  as  you  were  leaving 
the  dining-room."  She  added  after  a  moment,  "  Can  we  not 
go  somewhere  and  talk?  " 

Tom  looked  out  at  the  ocean  again.  "  I  walk  along  the 
shore  every  night,"  he  said. 

"  Let  me  go  with  you.     I  will  explain  to  the  Kolenskys." 


416  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Tom  took  a  step  forward  to  stop  her.  She  noticed  it  and 
looked  at  him  inquiringly.  "  They  are  the  Russian  family  I 
am  visiting,"  she  said  as  he  did  not  speak. 

"  Don't  mention  my  name  to  them,"  Tom  said  huskily. 

Miriam  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"  I  am  registered  here  by  the  name  of  Pond,"  he  added, 
and  an  agonized  expression  came  into  his  sullen  eyes,  which  he 
forced  to  meet  hers. 

Miriam  bowed  gravely. 

When  she  returned  to  him  he  had  collected  himself  some 
what,  but  his  embarrassment  was  still  so  great  that  it  affected 
her  also. 

"  You  might  not  like  to  be  seen  walking  with  me,"  he  said, 
hesitating  to  make  the  move  toward  the  gate. 

Miriam  made  it  herself,  and  he  followed  a  step  or  two 
behind  her.  They  went  down  to  the  shore  without  exchanging 
a  word. 

Then  Miriam  inquired,  "  Which  way  do  you  walk?  " 

"  Out  to  the  right,"  Tom  answered.  "  Nobody  else  goes 
that  way.  That  is  Santa  Barbara  Church  way  off  on  the 
bluff  there." 

Miriam  turned  to  the  right.  When  they  had  gone  some 
little  distance  she  asked,  "  How  long  ago  did  you  leave 
Winston?" 

"  Two  or  three  weeks." 

"  What  brought  you  here?  M 

He  made  no  reply. 

Miriam  stopped  and  looked  at  her  companion  with  mingled 
anxiety  and  sympathy.  "What  is  it  that  has  happened?" 
she  said  earnestly. 

Tom  looked  down  and  kicked  the  stones  at  his  feet.  How 
could  he  tell  this  woman,  of  all  the  world,  what  had  happened  ? 

She  saw  his  extremity  and  began  to  walk  again,  instinc 
tively  climbing  the  bluff.  He  kept  by  her  side, 

Presently  she  stopped.  "  Let  us  sit  down  here."  Her  eyes 
went  out  over  the  twilight  sea  as  she  spoke.  The  slow  sweep 
of  the  revolving  light  on  the  Island  of  Batz  drew  her  atten- 


THE    BALLINGTONS  417 

tion  to  the  left.  How  many  ages  that  stubborn  cliff  had 
defied  the  hurricanes  of  the  Atlantic,  to  be  touched  with  infinite 
melancholy  by  its  association  with  the  fugitive  wandering  of 
Mary  Stuart!  As  her  companion  seated  himself  beside  her, 
her  eyes  traveled  from  the  island  to  the  rugged  promontory 
on  which  the  town  was  built.  The  after-glow  lingered  on  the 
fine  bell-tower  of  the  fifteenth-century  church,  tinged  the  little 
white  houses  with  pink.  Miriam  followed  the  zigzag  of  the 
main  street  which  rose  out  of  the  breakers,  and  pursued  the 
ridge  until  it  faded  out  above  the  town.  The  promontory 
lifted  itself  higher  into  lonely  desolation,  swept  around  behind 
them  like  the  wall  of  an  amphitheater,  jutting  out  into  the 
sea  again  on  their  right.  Crowning  the  summit  of  the  second 
cliff  was  the  little  chapel,  Santa  Barbara,  as  white  and  still 
as  a  brooding  seagull. 

Tom  watched  Miriam  like  some  dumb  animal,  and  when  she 
turned  again  she  saw  the  old  look  of  wistfulness  emerging 
through  the  blind  despair  of  his  face. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  is  troubling  you,"  she  said. 
"  Perhaps  I  could  help  you,"  she  said  again. 

He  began  to  tremble  and  drawing  away  put  both  his 
hands  up  to  his  face  and  sobbed.  Miriam  never  had  seen  a 
man  give  way  like  this.  She  waited,  alarmed  at  the  violence 
of  his  grief.  But  the  physical  spasm  spent  itself  at  last,  and 
when  he  took  down  his  hands  and  left  the  swollen  features 
exposed,  he  seemed  to  have  wept  out  some  of  the  brutality 
that  had  stained  his  face. 

Miriam  continued  as  soon  as  she  saw  that  he  could  listen. 

"  I  am  going  to  America  on  my  father's  schooner.  I  wish 
you'd  let  him  take  you  back,  too.  Whatever  it  is,  it  would  be 
better  to  go  back  than  to  run  away.  You  have  only  begun 
life.  If  it's  begun  wrong,  there  is  time  for  you  to  begin 
over  again.  Will  you  go  back?  " 

"  I  can't."  The  answer  came  instantly,  but  after  a  con 
siderable  pause  he  said  again,  as  though  the  reply  were  the 
result  of  thinking,  "  I  can't  go  back." 

Miriam  reflected. 


418  THE     BALLINGTONS 

"  Does  your  brother  know  where  you  are  ? "  she  asked  at 
last. 

"  No." 

She  was  still  watching  him  earnestly,  and  a  dim  memory 
impelled  her  to  put  a  question  to  which  she  dreaded  to  hear 
the  answer.  "Are  you  alone?" 

Tom  did  not  change  his  position.  He  raised  his  head  and 
looking  at  Miriam  full  in  the  eyes  said,  "I  came  here  with 
Mrs.  Fred  Sidney." 

For  several  seconds  they  looked  at  each  other,  then  simul 
taneously  turned  their  eyes  away. 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  "  asked  Miriam. 

"  Out  there ! "  He  pointed  to  the  island  in  the  ocean. 
"  She  was  through  with  me  before  we  left  the  steamer.  I've 
followed  her  here  town  by  town,  not  to  be  with  her,  but  so  she 

won't  be  alone.  She  can't  go  any  farther  unless "  He 

gave  a  short  gesture  toward  the  water.  "  I'd  follow  her 
there,  all  right.  Most  women  snatch  a  little  happiness  out 
of  being  ruined.  She  didn't  get  even  that." 

After  a  silence,  Miriam  spoke  again :  "  Has  she  no  one  who 
can  come  to  her?  " 

"Nobody." 

She  waited  again,  then  said  simply,  "  I  will  go  to  her." 

Tom  turned  a  look  upon  her  which  Miriam  instinctively, 
shunned.  It  was  too  piteous  an  unveiling  of  his  soul. 

"  I  will  make  some  suitable  arrangement  with  her,"  she 
added  hastily,  steadying  him  with  the  commonplace  words. 

Tom  sat  rigidly  upright.  "  Miriam,"  he  said,  "  you  once 
offered  me  your  friendship.  I  tried  to  deserve  it  for  a  while. 
Under  other  circumstances,  God  knows  I  would  have  tried  for 
more.  I  gave  up  all  trying  that  night  in  New  York.  The 
only  thing  that  makes  your  kindness  bearable  to  me,  now,  is 
the  fact  that  you're  not  doing  this  for  me.  I  know  now  that 
your  friendship  does  not  demand  greatness.  You'd  do  it  for 
anybody.  Oh,  God!  if  I  only  had  stayed  even  what  I  was 
then ! " 

The  last  words  burst  from  him  in  a  choked  scream.     He 


THE    BALLINGTONS  419 

leaped  to  his  feet,  stumbled  a  few  steps  away  from  her,  and 
turned  his  back. 

Miriam's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him.  Then  she  said  shortly, 
"  Look  out  there  in  front  of  you.  Those  fishermen  down 
there  fight  the  ocean  all  their  lives.  What!  will  you  give 
up  at  your  first  shipwreck?  " 

The  bitter  kindness  of  the  words  lashed  Tom  to  a  last 
struggle  for  self-control.  He  forced  himself  to  face  his 
companion  again. 

"All  right,"  he  said  between  his  teeth.  He  looked  at  her 
with  shamed  and  beaten  but  unflinching  eyes.  Miriam's  face 
changed  slowly.  "  Miserable  sinners  all  of  us,"  she  said  at 
last,  scarcely  realizing  that  she  had  put  her  thought  into 
words.  At  first  Tom  did  not  take  in  their  meaning.  Miriam's 
look  was  a  revelation  to  him.  His  mind  was  irresistibly 
drawn  away  from  himself.  He  repeated  her  words  half- 
comprehendingly,  and  his  thoughts  turned  to  the  myriads  of 
blind  and  suffering  beings  who  were  hating  and  loving  and 
ruining  each  other,  and  through  it  all  were  groping  toward 
the  light — all  but  the  woman  before  him.  She  was  above  it, 
clear-eyed,  untouched,  yet  she  pitied  and  comprehended.  The 
first  faint  impulse  toward  regeneration,  tragic  and  hardly 
to  be  won  though  it  was,  stirred  within  him — that  inevitable 
instinct  which  drives  the  spirit  of  man  upward,  not  for  hope, 
nor  for  reward,  but  for  existence. 

Miriam  withdrew  her  eyes  from  him  and,  leaning  over 
abstractedly,  arranged  the  pebbles  at  her  feet.  As  Tom 
watched  her,  a  memory  out  of  his  childhood  came  back  to  him, 
and  he  quoted,  as  in  a  dream,  "  He  that  is  without  sin 
amongst  you,  let  him  first  cast  a  stone.  And  again  He  stooped 
down  and  wrote  with  His  finger  in  the  sand." 

Miriam's  hand  paused.  She  raised  herself.  Tom's  eyes 
rested  upon  her  head,  but  she  looked  off  to  sea.  The  stars 
were  beginning  to  come  out.  The  distant  monotone  of  the 
ocean  was  a  background  for  the  silence.  The  memory  of 
that  Figure  writing  in  the  sand  filled  their  souls. 

"  Miriam,"  said  Tom,  "  can  I  ever  become  good?  " 


420  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"  Yes." 

"  I  want  nothing  more." 

A  strange  peace  fell  about  them  while  the  stars  came  out 
thicker  in  the  sky  and  the  low  thunder  of  the  ocean  rose  with 
infinite  power  and  victory. 

When  they  stood  up  to  go,  Tom  held  out  his  hands. 

"  Good-by  till  we  meet  again,"  he  said,  "  if  we  ever  do." 

They  clasped  hands  and  then  he  turned  abruptly.  She 
saw  him  run  with  his  head  down,  along  the  lonely  shore  to  the 
right,  straight  into  the  on-coming  dark  and  the  in-coming 
ocean.  There  was  a  narrow  rim  of  shore-line  between  the 
bluff  and  the  sea.  But  she  saw  that  though  he  would  be  wet 
before  he  reached  the  point,  yet  he  would  reach  the  edge  of 
land  from  which  the  little  chapel,  Santa  Barbara,  sent  its 
ever-constant  beam  of  light  out  over  the  rocky  shore. 

A  line  from  Dante  about  a  runner  came  into  her  mind: 

"And  he  seemed  as  those  who  conquer,  not  those  who  are  defeated." 


CHAPTER  IX 

weeks  after  Miriam's  meeting  with  Tom  at  Roscoff 
a  group  of  girls  were  waiting  nervously  in  the  reception 
room  of  the  Kappa  Phi  Society  House  of  Winston  College. 
There  was  a  college  reunion,  and  they  were  expecting  the 
arrival  of  their  guest  of  honor. 

"  Is  that  the  carrige,  Lou  ?  " 

A  tall  girl  standing  by  the  window,  who  looked  composed 
enough  in  the  back,  turned  over  her  shoulder  a  scared  face 
to  answer  the  question.  "  I  didn't  hear  anything,"  she 
replied,  then  leaned  over  the  sill  and  stared  down  the  curving 
driveway. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  looks  at  all  as  I  remember  her,"  queried 
the  first  speaker.  "  I  never  shall  forget  those  stories  she  used 
to  tell  us  through  the  college  fence.  We  were  all  afraid  of 
her,  but  we  couldn't  resist  her  stories." 

"  I  have  still  a  little  clay  head  she  modeled  for  me  one  day 
out  of  one  of  my  mud-pies,  and  to  think  now  that  she  carves 
statues  for  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe!  I  read  in  the 
College  Art  Journal  that  the  whole  French  Academy  went 
down  on  their  knees  before  she  would  design  caryatides  for 
the  new  gallery." 

"You  ought  to  have  seen  them!"  a  full  ringing  voice 
interrupted  from  the  doorway. 

The  girls  gave  a  start  and  gazed  with  a  frightened 
fascination  at  the  newcomer  who  announced  herself  so 
unceremoniously. 

She  entered  the  room,  drawing  off  her  long,  gray  gloves, 
and  tossing  her  plumed  hat  on  the  lounge,  as  she  continued, 
"  There  was  Monsieur  O.,  with  all  his  honors  thick  upon  him, 
and  an  imperial  that  made  him  an  animated  souvenir  of  the 
Second  Empire  as  he  knelt;  there  was  M.  le  Professeur  G. 

421 


422          THE    BALLINGTONS 

on  his  right,  and  on  his  left  the  absinthe  drunkard  cartoonist, 
L.  Behind  him  the  rest  of  the  Academy  filed  in  and  knelt, 
and  last  came  the  famous  but  somewhat  aging  Hermes,  who 
didn't  want  to  kneel,  but  I  pointed  to  the  floor  and  he  sank. 
Then  they  all  began  in  concert,  '  We,  the  unworthy  painters 
of  France,  beseech  the  glory  of  America  to  vouchsafe  to  carve 
two  of  her  immortal  figures  of  fame  for  the  entrance  to  our 
Art  Gallery.  If  she  will  not,  we  perish ! '  " 

Miriam's  eyes  shone  with  a  mixture  of  mirth  and  pleasure 
as  she  sank  into  an  easy  chair  and  surveyed  her  disconcerted 
hostesses. 

The  tall  girl,  Lou  Allen,  was  the  first  to  recover  herself 
and  to  come  forward  with  heightened  color.  "  We  have  been 
wondering  ever  since  we  received  your  telegram,  Miss  Cass, 
how  we  can  show  you  that  we  appreciate  the  honor  you  do  us 
in  accepting  our  invitation.  You  mustn't  be  surprised  if 
your  fame  has  been  somewhat  twisted  in  coming  so  far  to  get 
here.  May  I  introduce  some  of  the  girls?  Frances  Mar 
shall — she  is  our  Nestor,  always  dropping  wisdom.  Ruth 
Grant — plays  the  banjo.  Sally  Tracy — basketball.  Roddy 
Random — valedictorian  and  whistler,  Alison  Drew — my 
chum — aims  to  sing  in  opera.  Polly  Hedges — paints.  Go 
bring  your  portfolio,  Polly.  Miss  Cass  will  like  to  see 
them." 

Polly  turned  crimson  as  the  others  broke  into  sudden 
laughter.  "  Never  painted  anything  but  chairs  in  my  life, 
Miss  Cass.  They're  just  trying  to  guy  me." 

"  Yes,  she  has,  Miss  Cass.     Here's  the  portfolio." 

Polly  flung  out  desperate  hands.  "  You  devilish  girls !  " 
she  exclaimed.  "Don't,  Miss  Cass!" 

Miriam  caught  the  note  of  agony  and  laid  the  portfolio 
unopened  on  the  table.  "  Let  us  talk  over  all  that  has  been 
going  on  since  I  left  college.  Come !  who  will  begin  ?  " 

There  was  an  intimacy  and  freedom  in  Miriam's  manner 
that  set  the  girls'  tongues  in  motion.  They  perched  around 
her  and  began  one  of  those  anthems  of  youth  where  many 
voices  take  up  the  theme,  "  You  are  great  and  we  are  proud 


THE    BALLINGTONS  423 

to  be  near  you."  Miriam  leaned  back  while  her  burnished 
head  turned  slightly  to  this  one  and  that  one  as  they  checked 
and  chaffed  and  interrupted  one  another  under  the  excitement 
of  the  older  woman's  smiling  and  luminous  eyes.  There  was  a 
sense  of  restlessness  in  the  air.  With  them  it  was  the  exhil 
aration  of  talking  with  a  famous  woman.  With  her  it  was 
the  re-living  of  youth.  She  was  waiting  through  all  their 
chatter  for  the  sound  of  a  well-known,  eager  footfall  which 
would  bring  back  the  one  enduring  charm  of  her  girlhood, 
the  one  friendship  that  had  been  unsullied  by  time.  Her 
cheeks  began  to  burn  with  unwonted  color,  and  the  mood  of 
the  girls  rose  to  a  bacchanalian  hilarity. 

Presently,  under  cover  of  the  mirth  awakened  by  an  anec 
dote  of  her  bohemian  life,  one  of  the  girls  leaned  over  to 
whisper  to  another: 

"  She  can't  have  been  such  friends  with  Mrs.  Ferdi 
nand  Ballington.  That  was  like  the  rest  of  the  alumnae 
gossip." 

The  whisper  seemed  to  have  conveyed  a  subtle  suggestion 
to  Miriam's  mind,  for  she  sat  up  and  drew  a  long  breath. 
"  Well,  girls,  this  has  made  me  years  younger,  so  that  I  am 
beginning  to  feel  the  uncontrollable  hunger  of  infancy.  Let 
us  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry.  Then  I  must  leave  you  and  go 
to  spend  the  evening  with  a  friend  I  have  looked  forward  to 
seeing,  as  you  will  look  forward  to  seeing  one  another  when 
you  have  had  Academies  and  Salons  littering  up  your  floors 
with  their  renowned  knees." 

"  Happy  woman ! — who  is  she,  Miss  Cass  ? — is  she  coming 
up  here? — may  we  meet  her?  " 

Miriam's  eyes  laughed  at  them  kindly.  "  Certainly  you 
may  see  her,  but  you  must  not  keep  her  long.  It  has  been 
three  years  since  I  saw  her,  and  much  as  I  love  you  on  three 
quarters  of  an  hour's  acquaintance,  you  must  make  way  for 
your  elders.  I  telegraphed  her  to  meet  me  here.  It  is 
Agnes  Sidney — you  know  her,  of  course,  as  Mrs.  Ferdinand 
Ballington." 

The  girls  looked  at  her,  dropped  their  eyes,  sat  quite  still. 


424          THE    BALLINGTONS 

Miriam's  manner  suddenly  changed.  Her  brows  settled 
over  her  eyes.  "Has  anything  happened  there?"  she  asked, 
as  though  they  were  strangers. 

They  looked  at  each  other  with  furtive  glances,  but  there 
was  no  escape  from  those  imperious  eyes. 

Frances  Marshall  finally  found  voice  to  say  painfully, 
"  It  can't  be  possible,  Miss  Cass,  that  you  didn't  know — that 
you  can't  have  heard  how  Mrs.  Ballington — about  the  unfor 
tunate "  She  stopped  in  a  panic. 

The  color  had  faded  out  of  Miriam's  cheeks.  "  I  have 
heard  nothing,"  she  said,  so  rapidly  as  to  be  scarcely  intel 
ligible.  She  drew  a  quick  breath,  as  though  to  ease  her 
heart.  "  Tell  me  what  has  happened.  Be  quick  about  it !  " 

"Mrs.  Ballington  died  over  two  months  ago." 

Miriam's  hand  left  the  arm  of  the  chair,  hung  poised  in 
the  air  a  moment,  and  then  dropped  back.  The  girl  who  was 
"  aiming  at  opera  "  knew  that  the  hand  had  tried  to  ward  the 
dagger  from  her  heart,  but  had  been  too  late.  The  girls 
turned  away  and  busied  themselves  in  aimless  ways  about  the 
room.  Three  of  them  stole  out  through  the  door  behind  her. 
Miriam  did  not  move.  One  of  the  girls  who  remained  sat 
down  on  the  lounge  in  a  dark  corner  of  the  room,  buried  her 
face  in  the  pillows,  and  began  to  sob  noiselessly.  Still 
Miriam  did  not  stir.  What  was  passing  in  her  mind  only 
those  who  have  felt  that  mortal  thrust  know. 

When  she  spoke  again  her  words  sounded  like  the  burial 
service.  There  was  no  passion,  no  personality  in  the  tones. 
"  Be  kind  enough  to  tell  me  the  particulars." 

Two  of  the  girls  came  forward.  The  third  left  the  lounge 
and  fled  from  the  room. 

"  Mrs.  Ballington  had  been  apparently  in  perfect  health, 
Miss  Cass.  She  was  down  street  the  day  before  she  was  taken 
sick.  I  saw  her  and  she  bowed  to  me,  although  I  remember  I 
wondered  if  she  recognized  me,  she  seemed  so  preoccupied. 
She  was  not  looking  well  then,  but  I  had  seen  her  frequently 
about  the  city  before  that,  and  she  had  been  looking  particu 
larly  well." 


THE    BALLINGTONS  425 

Miriam's  gray  eyes  were  looking  through  and  beyond  the 
speaker  and  she  seemed  hardly  conscious  of  her  own  words 
as  she  asked,  "  Were  you  ever  close  enough  to  her  to  see  if — 
if  her  hair " 

She  broke  off  as  her  mind  went  back  and  divined  the  cares 
and  griefs  and  struggles  in  her  friend's  life  that  must  have 
undermined  her  strength. 

Frances  Marshall  waited  for  her  to  finish. 

"Go  on,  please,"  said  the  voice. 

"  I  often  noticed  Mrs.  Ballington's  hair,  Miss  Cass.  It 
was  not  gray  at  all.  She  did  not  seem  to  age  like  other 
women,  only  to  grow  richer  and  sweeter  in  mind  and  body." 

Frances'  voice  stopped  huskily,  but  after  a  moment  she 
went  on. 

"  The  occasion  of  her  illness  was  a  premature  birth.  There 
were  several  physicians.  Dr.  Quinn  came  down  from  Kent, 
but  only  in  time  to  see  her  die." 

Miriam  looked  at  her  as  though  she  were  still  speaking. 
Presently  she  glanced  away  to  the  window.  After  a  long 
silence  she  drew  another  quick  breath  and  rose.  "  If  you  will 
find  my  hat  and  gloves,  I  think  I  will  go.  It  was  a  very 
pleasant  visit  until — and  I  thank  you  all — but  I  see  they  have 
gone.  I  have  given  you  a  very  bad  half -hour,  my  dear.  The 
reason  I  heard  nothing  was  because  I  came  over  from  France 
in  a  schooner.  Whatever  letters  I  have  were  written  me 
there,  and  have  been  forwarded  to  her  home,  where  they  are 
waiting  for  me.  I  will  go  down  and  get  them  before  I  leave 
the  city." 

She  put  on  her  hat  and  stood  idly  fingering  her  gloves. 
Frances  Marshall's  eyes  began  to  sting  and  presently  two 
tears  burned  their  way  down  her  cheeks.  Miriam  looked 
up,  glanced  around  the  room,  and  started  for  the  wrong 
door. 

"  This  is  the  way  out,  Miss  Cass,"  said  the  girl  brokenly. 
"  If  you  care  to  come  back,  you  can  be  alone  here." 

Miriam  turned.  She  touched  Frances'  tear-wet  cheek  with 
a  gentle  finger.  "  Good-by." 


426  THE    BALLINGTONS 

She  followed  the  old  lilac-bordered  path  curving  round 
to  the  gate.  Overhead  the  locusts  hung  heavy  with  honey 
and  bees.  Beside  her  walked  a  phantom  girl  in  white  with  a 
Roman  sash  and  vine-leaf  hat.  They  reached  the  gate,  the 
girl  stayed  behind,  smiling  her  old  brilliant,  eager  smile, 
kissing  her  hand  in  farewell.  With  eyes  of  agony  Miriam 
saw  her  fade  into  the  pine  trees,  and  turned  to  go  down  the 
street. 

Then  she  was  conscious  of  another  presence,  older  and 
sadder,  still  more  beautiful,  and  thrilling  with  love  and  long 
ing.  She  felt  the  gentle  hand  steal  into  hers,  and  with  a  face 
that  made  the  few  passers-by  give  her  the  whole  walk  she  went 
down  into  the  city,  listening  to  words  that  would  never  be 
spoken  to  her  again. 

There  was  a  jar,  a  break-off  of  the  familiar  voice.  Miriam 
looked  up  with  blind  fury  at  the  interruption,  to  see  a  man 
standing  in  front  of  her  hat  in  hand.  It  was  Donald 
Ballington. 

"  I  was  just  coming  to  find  you,  Miss  Cass,"  he  said 
eagerly. 

Miriam  put  out  her  hand  mechanically. 

Donald  waited  a  moment,  and  went  on.  "My  mother  is 
away,  and  I  am  living  down  at  the  hotel  on  the  lake  during 
the  summer,  but  the  house  is  open  and  I  wondered  if 

you  would  not  like  to  go  there  rather  than  to "  He 

did  not  finish.  "  You  can  be  quite  alone  or  not,  as  you 
like." 

The  last  sentence  was  a  refuge  to  Miriam.  If  she  could 
be  alone  for  a  while,  she  could  pull  herself  together.  She  was 
still  holding  Donald's  hand  as  though  they  were  girls 
together,  when  she  replied,  "  Thank  you,  Mr.  Ballington.  I 
should  like  to  spend  the  night  there.  In  the  morning  I  shall 
go  back  to  New  York.  When  I  am  a  little  used  to  it,  I  will 
come  back  to  Kent  to  see  Mrs.  Sidney." 

Donald  turned  and  walked  beside  her  in  silence.  He 
divined  that  she  was  not  thinking  of  him. 

"  I  suppose  you  came  on  to  see  the  children,"  he  ventured 


THE    BALLINGTONS  427 

at  last.  "  Aunt  Margaret  telephoned  me  you  were  to  be 
here." 

"  I  came  on  to  see  Agnes." 

Donald  started. 

Miriam  added,  "  I  heard  she  was  dead  only  half  an  hour 
ago." 

Donald's  heart  swelled  within  him.  They  reached  the 
gate  of  his  house.  He  opened  it  and  stood  aside  for  her  to 
enter. 

"Mr.  Ballington,  I  wish  you  would  come  in  a  few 
moments,"  said  Miriam ;  "  I  want  to  ask  some  questions,  and 
I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

Donald  followed  her  up  the  walk  with  a  foreboding  heart. 
As  they  went  into  the  hall  the  twilight  struck  cold  to  his 
fancy;  their  foot-falls  echoed  through  the  empty  house. 
They  sat  down  in  the  drawing  room,  and  Miriam  placed  her 
hat  on  the  table  beside  her. 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  very  particularly  about  the  last 
weeks  of  Agnes'  life.  Her  letters  told  me  much,  but  we  do 
not  write  the  things  that  affect  us  most.  In  this  case  death 
anticipated  what  might  have  been  said." 

Donald  told  all  that  he  remembered.  He  said  little  about 
Ferdinand,  much  about  Agnes  and  her  cheerfulness  in  the 
face  of  physical  weakness.  He  recounted  a  conversation  he 
had  had  with  her,  in  which  she  had  sent  upstairs  for  a  packet 
of  Miriam's  letters,  neatly  docketed  and  tied  with  a  purple 
ribbon,  and  read  him  passages  here  and  there. 

Miriam's  head  sank  upon  the  table  in  a  spasm  of  grief. 
Donald  hesitated  and  stopped.  She  thought  it  was  because 
she  troubled  him,  and,  after  a  little,  she  raised  her  face  and 
wiped  her  eyes,  "Don't  mind  me,  Mr.  Ballington.  This  is 
just  what  I  want  to  hear." 

Then  he  began  on  the  story  of  Tom  and  Beatrice.  Miriam 
looked  at  him  searchingly  and,  once,  when  he  halted,  urged 
him  gently,  "  Tell  me  everything  just  as  it  was." 

The  slow  anger  of  the  righteous  was  in  Donald's  soul  as 
he  continued.  "  Ferdinand  was  aware  of  the  situation,  Miss 


THE    BALLINGTONS 

Cass,  and  he  was  glad  of  it.  He  always  hated  Tom  and 
Beatrice  both.  He  hates  me  because  I  did  some  things  for 
his  wife  that  he  wouldn't  do ;  and  more  than  that,  because  I 
told  him  that  I  thought  he  couldn't  and  wouldn't  make  her 
happy.  He  stopped  her  by  force  from  getting  any  message 
to  me  or  Fred  of  what  Tom  and  Beatrice  were  doing,  and 
she  had  to  lie  to  him  and  creep  out  of  her  own  house  like  a 
thief  finally  to  get  to  me.  She  drove  around  to  find  me  in  a 
hired  carriage,  with  her  heart  breaking  because  she  had  been 
detained  so  long.  She  was  dying  when  I  talked  with  her. 
She  left  the  carriage,  walked  out  of  hearing  of  the  coach 
man,  but  she  could  scarcely  stand.  He  killed  her,  and  that 
is  all  there  is  to  say." 

Miriam  sat  outwardly  controlled  as  Donald  went  through 
the  rest  of  his  recital — his  last  interview  with  Agnes,  his 
fruitless  pursuit  of  the  fugitive  pair  as  far  as  New  York,  his 
return  to  find  Agnes  dead,  the  dissolution  of  partnership 
between  him  and  his  cousin. 

When  he  was  through  there  was  a  silence;  then  she  said, 
with  a  self-restraint  which  Donald  felt  to  be  more  terrible 
than  any  outburst  of  passion,  "  I  saw  your  brother  before 
I  left  France  and  had  a  talk  with  him.  I  also  saw  Mrs. 
Fred  Sidney." 

Donald's  face  flushed  crimson. 

"  They  had  separated,"  Miriam  went  on,  "  and  both  were 
wretched." 

Donald  listened  with  strained  attention  to  Miriam's  words 
of  Tom.  When  she  had  finished  he  waited  a  moment  to  get 
control  of  himself,  and  then  said  in  a  husky  voice,  "  I  once 
hoped  Tom  and  you  might  marry.  Perhaps  you  have  helped 
him  more  than  if  you  had."  He  waited,  then  said  still 
huskily,  "Tell  me  about  Beatrice." 

Miriam  considered.  "  I  cannot  repeat  the  conversation. 
She  was  reticent  and  told  me  nothing  of  what  I  have  learned 
from  you.  We  spoke  of  her  future,  however,  and  she  is  now 
with  friends  of  mine  in  Paris.  I  am  in  communication  with 
her.  I  have  with  me  a  letter  from  her  for  Agnes." 


THE     BALLINGTONS  429 

Another  pause  followed,  then  Donald  fulfilled  his  last  com 
mission  from  his  cousin's  wife. 

"I  have  a  letter  for  you,  Miss  Cass.  It  is  from  Agnes 
and  it  is  postmarked  the  day  before  she  died.  As  you  see, 
she  directed  it  to  be  returned  to  me  in  case  it  did  not  reach 
you." 

Donald  rose  as  he  spoke.  Miriam  held  out  her  hand 
unsteadily  for  the  letter,  and  then  went  with  him  to  the  door. 

After  he  was  gone,  she  asked  to  be  shown  to  her  room. 
Later  on  when  the  maid  took  up  a  tray  upon  which  a  delicate 
luncheon  had  been  arranged,  Miriam  answered  her  rap  at  the 
door  at  once,  and  the  letter  was  in  her  hand  still  unopened. 
It  was  late  that  night  before  she  broke  the  seal. 


CHAPTER  X 

Miriam  came  down  to  breakfast  in  the  morning 
she  stopped  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  looked  down 
the  wide  hall  she  had  entered  for  the  first  time  eight  years  be 
fore  with  Agnes.  Through  the  open  doorway  she  could  see 
the  pillared  veranda  and  below  it  the  well-kept  walk  and 
driveway.  Presently  she  turned  and  went  into  the  music 
room.  The  piano  was  open  and  a  book  of  songs  still  rested 
on  the  rack.  She  crossed  the  room  wondering  if  it  were  the 
Rubinstein  song  Agnes  had  sung  that  first  night,  but  the 
music  was  open  at  Lassen's  "Es  war  ein  Traum."  As  she 
read  the  words  she  seemed  to  hear  Tom's  voice  singing  as  they 
drifted  on  the  lake,  while  Agnes  sat  in  the  stern  of  the  boat 
trailing  her  fingers  in  the  water.  Miriam  turned  away  to  the 
dining-room  with  the  memory  of  that  last  day  and  night  with 
Agnes  around  her,  and  as  she  walked  the  letter  which  she 
carried  next  her  heart  lay  with  insupportable  weight 
upon  her. 

She  found  a  note  from  Donald  on  the  breakfast  table,  say 
ing  that  Mrs.  Sidney  was  coming  in  from  Kent  on  the  morn 
ing  train  and  that  if  she  wished  she  would  be  able  to  see  her 
a  few  minutes  at  the  station  before  her  own  train  left.  There 
was  also  a  time-table  with  her  train  marked  on  it.  "  Mr.  Bal- 
lington  left  word  that  the  carriage  is  at  your  disposal," 
supplemented  the  maid  who  served  her. 

As  she  ate  her  breakfast  Miriam  remembered  Donald's 
saying  that  Ferdinand  had  been  out  of  town  several  weeks 
and  that  Miss  Margaret  and  the  children  were  out  at  the 
lake  where  Mrs.  Sidney  was  to  meet  them.  She  decided  to 
go  for  any  letters  which  might  be  held  at  the  farm  for  her, 
and  after  breakfast  ordered  the  carriage.  Having  packed 

430 


THE    BALLINGTONS  431 

her  few  things,  she  left  a  note  for  Donald  thanking  him  for 
his  kindness,  and  started  off  for  the  deserted  house  which  she 
had  come  to  visit  with  such  hope  and  eagerness. 

As  the  double  row  of  clipped  cedars  came  in  sight,  Ferdi 
nand's  spirit  seemed  to  challenge  her,  and  two  sullen  spots  of 
red  began  to  glow  high  up  on  her  cheeks.  She  left  the  car 
riage  at  the  gate,  and  as  she  went  swiftly  up  the  walk  to 
the  house  she  noticed  that  the  great  front  door  stood  open. 
She  was  scarcely  conscious  of  what  she  did  as  she  went  up 
the  steps  and  entered  without  ringing. 

There  was  the  green  parlor  with  the  door  shut.  "They 
carried  her  out  from  there,"  she  thought.  After  a  moment 
she  turned  to  the  library.  "  No  more  flowers  here  now." 
Down  the  hall  the  door  into  the  dining-room  was  open,  and 
Miriam  caught  sight  of  the  tall  iron  lamp  and  the  old-rose 
shade. 

With  a  sense  of  desolation  she  turned  to  the  stairway.  As 
she  went  up  the  letter  in  her  bosom  seemed  to  burn  into  her 
the  sentence  in  which  Agnes  had  stated  without  emotion  the 
way  in  which  she  for  the  last  time  had  struggled  up  those 
stairs — "  When  I  reached  home  I  could  no  longer  stand ; 
I  think  I  must  have  come  up  to  my  room  on  my  hands  and 
knees." 

Miriam  paused  a  moment  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  then 
turned  toward  Agnes'  room.  Her  heart  beat  heavily  as  she 
put  out  her  hand  to  the  door.  After  a  moment's  hesitation, 
however,  she  turned  the  knob  noiselessly,  and  the  door  swung 
open. 

The  white  curtains  at  the  windows  blew  gently  toward  her 
with  the  current  of  air  that  drew  through  the  room  with  her 
entrance,  and  they  subsided  again  as  she  closed  the  door 
behind  her.  There  was  a  flicker  of  sun  and  shadow  on  the 
shades  as  the  trees  outside  swayed  in  the  breeze. 

Miriam  stood  still  until  her  eyes  accustomed  themselves  to 
the  twilight.  She  noticed  that  the  door  into  Ferdinand's 
room  was  ajar  and  that  a  rim  of  light  outlined  the  opening. 
Upon  the  wall  opposite  the  door  was  hung  the  portrait  of 


432  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Estelle  Landseer,  and  Miriam  wondered  why  it  had  been 
brought  from  the  green  parlor.  Agnes'  desk  had  been  moved 
from  its  old  position  over  to  one  of  the  front  windows  where 
it  stood  open  with  a  chair  in  front  of  it  as  though  someone 
had  been  writing  there  recently.  Miriam  turned  away  with 
a  feeling  of  strangeness  to  the  bed.  That,  too,  was  differ 
ently  placed.  Then  her  eyes  passed  quickly  over  the  other 
objects  in  the  room,  and  she  discovered  that  the  pictures  on 
the  wall  alone  remained  as  she  remembered  them. 

A  passion  of  homesickness,  an  uncontrollable  desire  to 
have  things  as  they  were,  came  over  her.  It  was  intolerable 
that  this  one  place  of  all  others,  which  should  be  the  shrine 
of  her  friend's  memory,  should  be  desecrated  by  change. 
Scarcely  thinking  what  she  was  doing,  she  went  swiftly  over 
to  the  desk  and  shoved  it  across  the  room. 

As  she  did  so  she  saw  that  a  late  picture  of  herself  hung 
framed  in  one  of  the  compartments.  A  mist  of  tears,  the 
first  she  had  shed,  blurred  her  eyes  as  she  turned  away. 

A  moment  later  she  had  replaced  the  chairs  as  they  used 
to  be,  and  then  there  was  the  soft  rumble  of  the  bed  rolling 
around  on  its  castors. 

When  it  was  in  its  old  position  Miriam  stood  looking  down 
at  it.  "  Agnes !  "  she  said  under  her  breath.  Then,  as  if  in 
a  dream,  she  put  out  her  hand  to  touch  the  pillow,  but  it 
stopped  an  inch  or  two  in  the  air  above  it.  Then  her  hand 
began  to  pass  slowly  downward  toward  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
always  a  few  inches  above  it,  now  higher,  now  lower,  as 
though  it  were  following  the  curves  of  a  recumbent  form. 
Then  Miriam  straightened  herself  and  stood  motionless,  her 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  little  space  of  air  an  inch  or  two  above 
the  pillow. 

There  was  a  sound  of  steps  in  the  adjoining  room,  the 
door  was  pushed  open,  and  a  man's  figure  paused  in  aston 
ishment  on  the  threshold. 

Miriam  neither  heard  nor  saw. 

Ferdinand's  eyes  glanced  quickly  around  the  room  and 
took  in  at  once  what  the  sound  of  the  moving  furniture 


THE    BALLINGTONS       „    433 

had  meant.  "What  are  you  doing  in  here?"  he  exclaimed 
angrily,  taking  Miriam  for  the  servant. 

There  was  an  instantaneous  change  in  the  motionless  figure 
by  the  bed  and  Miriam  wheeled  toward  him. 

Still  Ferdinand  did  not  recognize  her  across  the  room  in 
the  dim  light.  He  was  conscious  only  of  a  dark  and  hostile 
presence  that  filled  him  with  something  he  would  not  confess 
to  be  dread.  He  waited  a  moment  for  a  reply,  then  crossed 
the  room,  and  sent  one  of  the  window  shades  with  a  snap  to 
the  top  of  the  sash.  Then  he  turned  and  recognized  her. 

"I  did  not  hear  you  come  in,  Miss  Cass.  Have  you  been 
here  long?  No  one  told  me  you  had  come." 

Miriam  stood  looking  at  him.  All  the  night  before  she 
had  struggled  with  passions  that  had  taken  a  form  which 
only  the  strongest  can  feel  without  mental  and  moral  ship 
wreck.  Love,  grief,  hatred,  and  vengeance  had  scarred 
her  soul.  Now  as  she  stood  face  to  face  with  the  man  she 
considered  her  friend's  murderer  a  stillness  of  mood  suc 
ceeded  the  tumult.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though  she  were 
standing  in  the  presence  of  the  dead,  and  when  she  spoke  she 
felt  herself  to  be  pronouncing  the  epilogue  of  a  tale  that 
is  told. 

"  No  one  heard  me  come  in,  Mr.  Ballington.  The  door 
was  open  and  I  did  not  ring." 

He  did  not  know  how  to  break  the  silence  that  followed, 
and  waited  for  her  next  words. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  children  ?  " 

There  was  a  well-modulated  surprise  in  Ferdinand's  voice 
as  he  replied,  "I  shall  keep  them  here  in  charge  of  Aunt 
Margaret." 

There  was  a  pause  that  lasted  until  it  became  embarrassing 
to  Ferdinand.  He  moved  uneasily  and  opened  his  lips  as 
though  to  speak,  when  Miriam  anticipated  him. 

"  It  may  be  that  I  never  shall  have  another  chance  to  talk 
with  you.  Mr.  Ballington,  when  I  was  here  before,  we  did 
not  talk  seriously.  Perhaps  no  one  but  Agnes  ever  talked 
so  to  you." 


434  THE     BALLINGTONS 

As  Ferdinand  met  the  gray  eyes  that  were  steadfastly 
upon  him,  something  in  him  flinched.  They  searched  him 
as  the  eyes  of  his  mother's  portrait  searched  him,  and  he 
could  neither  baffle  them  nor  meet  them  unconcerned. 

"Let  us  go  downstairs,"  he  said  with  studied  courtesy, 
turning  toward  the  door.  He  felt  an  overwhelming  reluc 
tance  to  talk  with  her  in  this  room. 

Miriam  stayed  where  she  was.  When  he  reached  the  door 
and  turned  back  to  her,  she  said : 

"  If  you  will  stay  I  would  rather  talk  here.  It  will  be  only 
a  few  moments." 

Ferdinand  hesitated,  then  came  back  to  her. 

"Mr.  Ballington,"  asked  Miriam  directly,  "what  killed 
Agnes  ?  " 

The  unexpected  question  confused  Ferdinand.  He  replied 
after  a  moment,  "  I  believe  the  immediate  cause  of  death  was 
heart-failure." 

An  intuition  of  what  was  coming  brought  with  it  a  dread 
which  was  inexplicable  to  him.  He  could  not  shake  it  off, 
and  he  could  not  rise  above  it.  Her  next  words  roused  him 
to  strained  attention. 

"  You  and  I  know  the  real  reason." 

As  they  continued  to  look  at  each  other  Ferdinand's 
memory  began  to  stir.  He  found  himself  seeing  as  Miriam 
would  have  seen  long-vanished  expressions  of  his  wife's  face. 
When  they  occurred  he  had  scarcely  noted  them,  or  worse, 
had  commented  on  them  impatiently — expressions  of  weari 
ness,  of  quickly-disguised  pain,  of  disappointment,  of  bewil 
derment,  of  fear,  of  anguish,  of  hope  fading  into  endurance. 
As  they  passed  before  him  there  thronged  into  his  mind  the 
words  that  had  accompanied  them.  When  they  were  spoken 
he  had  heard  them  with  indifference,  with  indulgence,  with 
anger.  Now  he  heard  them  as  they  would  have  sounded 
to  Miriam,  and  the  recollection  troubled  him  more  than  he 
ever  had  been  troubled  before.  He  was  at  a  loss,  too,  how 
to  reply  to  her  last  curious  remark,  whose  meaning  was  by 
no  means  clear  to  him. 


THE     BALLINGTONS  435 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  he  replied  stiffly,  without  with 
drawing  his  eyes  from  hers. 

"  If  you  did  not  and  could  not  understand  me,  it  would  take 
away  my  only  excuse  for  talking  to  you.  It  is  on  the  chance 
that  you  do  and  can  that  I  venture  it.  Surely  you  must  have 
suffered,  or  at  least  been  shocked,  in  losing  your  wife  and 
baby.  You  must  have  thought  then,  and  since,  things  that 
you  never  had  thought  before."  Miriam  spoke  quietly  but 
without  hesitation. 

"  It  is  not  necessary  for  us  to  talk  over  my  thoughts," 
interposed  Ferdinand. 

Again  he  turned  to  go,  but  her  statement  once  more  held 
him.  "  Agnes  wrote  me  a  letter  the  night  before  she  died." 

Ferdinand  waited  half-warily,  half-contemptuously.  As 
she  did  not  continue  he  returned  shortly,  "Well?  " 

He  was  watching  her  intently  now,  but  her  face  might  have 
been  made  of  stone,  he  told  himself  bitterly,  so  free  was  it 
from  the  self-revelation  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed  in 
Agnes.  There  was  not  a  tremor  either  of  friendliness  or  of 
hostility  in  the  fine,  strong  mask  against  which  his  fixed 
gaze  struck  and  glanced  idly  off. 

"  The  facts  I  know  are  inconsequent,  except  in  so  far  as 
they  enable  me  to  talk  to  you  understandingly.  Mr.  Balling- 
ton,  you  had  given  to  you  the  daily  companionship  of  a  soul 
that  tried  to  live  the  spiritual  life.  You  could  not  see  what 
was  your  most  precious  possession.  You  looked  at  Agnes' 
mistakes,  her  weaknesses  and  her  failures,  and  blamed  them, 
not  knowing  that  it  was  only  these  that  made  and  kept  her 
your  wife.  That  finer  and  truer  Agnes,  the  steadfast  soul 
that  learned  through  weakness  and  failure  to  lay  hold  of 
courage  and  power,  you  more  than  blamed,  you  hated  and 
tried  to  crush — but  all  you  could  do  was  to  kill  her." 

Miriam's  voice  broke.  Ferdinand  noticed  it  instantly. 
After  all  she  was  but  an  over-wrought  woman,  he  considered, 
her  loss  of  control  atoning  for  what  she  had  said.  But  the 
break  was  momentary.  Almost  immediately  she  resumed. 

"Mr.  Ballington,  the  world  is  going  another  way  from 


436  THE    BALLINGTONS 

yours,  no  matter  who  or  how  many  will  to  stop  it.  You  have 
pinned  your  faith  to  what  you  call  hard  facts,  but  there  are 
spiritual  facts  that  you  never  have  seen.  Sooner  or  later, 
however,  spiritual  facts  enter  into  your  world  of  hard  facts 
and  they  never  demonstrate  themselves  so  irrefutably  as  they 
do  when  a  man  like  you,  refusing  to  believe  in  them,  himself 
unwillingly  proves  the  opposite  of  what  he  set  out  to  prove." 

Ferdinand  now  had  himself  well  enough  in  hand  to  indulge 
an  ironical  smile.  Agnes'  school-friend  had  one  feminine  gift 
at  least,  that  of  oratory. 

"  What  did  I  set  out  to  prove?  "  he  asked. 

There  was  a  short  silence  broken  by  the  twittering  of  a 
nest  of  young  swallows  under  the  eaves  over  the  window. 
Then  Miriam  replied :  "  That  selfish  interest  is  the  determin 
ing  force  of  life.  It  has  not  been  with  the  strongest  people 
you  have  known;  not  with  Dr.  Quinn,  who  preferred  Mrs. 
Sidney's  friendship  to  yours ;  not  with  Mrs.  Sidney  herself, 
who  sold  her  home  to  rescue  her  daughter's  family,  although 
legally  another  man  was  responsible  for  Mr.  Mabie's  debts. 
You  would  have  let  the  other  man  pay  them.  Mrs.  Sidney 
burdened  herself  with  a  crippled  relation  who  had  nearer 
claims  on  other  people.  You  advised  turning  her  over  to 
them.  Agnes  followed  your  guiding  principle,  although  she 
did  not  do  it  legally,  when  she  falsified  her  house  accounts. 
She  took  what  she  considered  was  hers,  although  it  happened 
to  be  in  your  possession.  She  repudiated  your  theory  when 
she  confessed  to  you.  She  continued  to  repudiate  it  from 
that  time  till  she  died.  Now  look  at  results !  " 

"I  trust  that  you  are  satisfied  with  results,"  commented 
Ferdinand. 

"  Relatively  speaking,  yes.  Dr.  Quinn  never  will  be  a 
rich  man,  but  he  will  live  the  life  he  wants  to  live.  Mrs.  Sid 
ney,  in  spite  of  loss  and  bereavement,  has  an  old  age  rich  in 
love  and  gratitude.  The  cripple  has  been  something  better 
than  an  encumbrance,  she  has  been  an  encouragement  and  a 
comforter.  Agnes'  death  proved  that  she  was  right  and  you 
were  wrong,  for  it  proved  that  it  is  impossible  to  reconcile 


THE    BALLINGTONS  437 

the  life  of  the  soul — and  that  is  the  life  of  the  race — with 
your  hideous  creed  that  would  stifle  the  soul  and  hence  the 
race.  When  you  killed  her  you  proved  that.  There  is  no  com 
ing  to  terms  with  you  or  your  kind.  You  must  be  abandoned. 
You  tried  to  ruin  Beatrice  Sidney  through  her  weaknesses 
and  those  of  her  husband  and  Tom  Ballington.  Selfishness 
and  recklessness  blinded  them  so  far.  Then  the  higher  nature 
awoke  and,  instead  of  ruining,  you  have  truly  saved  all  three. 
They  see,  at  last,  and  they  forgive.  Since  it  has  been 
demonstrated,  you  should  acknowledge  that  you  have  been 
wrong.  Until  you  feel  uncertain  of  yourself  and  what  you 
have  lived  for,  you  are  a  lost  soul." 

Ferdinand  stood  without  moving  through  all  she  said.  He 
looked  at  her  unwaveringly,  but  there  was  a  curious  veil  over 
his  eyes.  Whether  he  heard  her  or  not,  Miriam  could  not  tell. 

She  paused  a  moment,  then,  when  he  did  not  move,  she 
turned  and  went  to  the  door. 

Glancing  back  at  him  a  moment  before  she  left  him,  she 
saw  him  looking  after  her  with  the  same  inscrutable  quiet. 
With  a  sigh  of  farewell  to  the  room  she  never  might  enter 
again,  Miriam  went  out  and  closed  the  door  after  her. 

Ferdinand  stood  where  she  left  him.  Anger  and  bitter 
ness  darkened  his  face.  He  heard  her  leave  the  house,  heard 
the  carriage  roll  away.  Then  he  went  over  to  his  wife's  desk, 
sat  down  impatiently,  drew  some  sheets  of  paper  to  him  and 
picked  up  a  pen.  In  order  to  free  his  mind  from  the  unwel 
come  thoughts  Miriam  had  called  up  he  was  about  to  write 
a  business  letter.  He  raised  his  eyes  a  moment  preparatory 
to  starting  the  letter  and  found  himself  looking  at  his 
mother's  portrait  on  the  wall  opposite.  Agnes  had  asked  a 
short  time  before  her  death  that  it  be  brought  to  her  room 
in  order  that  her  children  might  have  its  constant  compan 
ionship.  He  turned  his  eyes  away  from  it  instantly,  rose  and 
touched  the  bell.  A  few  moments  later  the  maid  tapped  at 
the  door.  He  told  her  to  order  the  horse  to  be  saddled,  and 
dismissed  her  curtly.  As  he  heard  her  receding  footsteps 
the  silence  and  emptiness  of  the  house  grew  upon  him.  He 


438  THE    BALLINGTONS 

went  back  to  the  desk,  and,  as  he  was  shutting  it,  saw  Mir 
iam's  picture  looking  at  him.  With  a  exclamation  he  picked 
it  up,  pulled  open  the  little  drawer,  threw  it  in,  and  shut  the 
drawer  violently.  Then  he  closed  the  desk  and  stood  frown 
ing  at  it  abstractedly.  How  oppressively  still  the  house 
was !  The  children  were  coming  home  from  the  lake  that 
night,  but  the  thought  gave  him  no  pleasure.  They  shrank 
away  from  him,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  even  his  aunt  was 
beginning  to  do  the  same.  Donald  had  left  the  office.  Tom 
never  again  would  be  conveniently  present  to  point  his 
morals.  Whispers  against  himself  that  had  started  when  he 
sold  his  mother-in-law's  home  had  touched  his  reputation  in 
Winston.  He  fancied  that  people  treated  him  differently 
since  his  wife's  death,  and  he  wondered  uncomfortably  how 
much  they  knew.  Miriam  Cass  had  insulted  him,  and  he 
could  not  reply.  How  still  the  house  was  since  she  left ! 
Would  anything  ever  fill  the  emptiness  again?  All  his  suc 
cesses  began  to  seem  dreary,  the  world  to  seem  mechanical. 
A  sentence  he  had  heard  somewhere  came  back  to  him.  "  Have 
you  never  wished  to  get  away  from  this  world  of  buying  and 
selling  to  live " — he  started  into  full  recollection  as  the 
sentence  completed  itself — "  with  me  and  the  children  ?  " 
The  passionate  appeal  he  had  denied  assailed  him  once  more, 
no  longer  beseeching  but  eondemning,  terrifying.  The  sound 
of  horse's  hoofs  on  the  gravel  outside  roused  him.  He  passed 
his  hand  over  his  eyes  trying  to  shake  off  a  question  which 
began  to  prey  upon  his  self-assurance.  Dropping  his  hand 
he  turned  determinedly  to  leave  the  room.  Once  more  his 
eyes  rested  upon  his  mother's  portrait.  Ferdinand  was  con 
scious  of  a  thrill  of  fear,  for  the  still  gray  eyes  met  his  own 
with  the  same  silent  question  he  felt  henceforth  would  chal 
lenge  his  soul. 

Had  Agnes  been  right? 


CHAPTER  XII 

AS  the  horses  stopped  at  the  station  Miriam  stood  up  in 
the  carriage  and  looked  back  down  the  slope  to  the  city 
resting  on  the  shore  of  the  lake.  It  seemed  a  mass  of  green, 
with  roofs  showing  here  and  there  among  the  trees.  Several 
spires  rose  above  the  green,  one  of  them  lifting  the  outlines 
of  a  cross  against  the  sky.  The  waters  of  the  lake  in  the 
distance  looked  still  and  blue,  but  the  noise  in  the  great  trees 
near  at  hand  brought  the  sound  of  waters  to  Miriam's  ears 
and  she  closed  her  eyes  for  an  instant  as  in  memory  she 
walked  with  Agnes  along  that  curving  shore. 

Then  she  heard  Donald's  voice  speaking  to  her,  saying  that 
Mrs.  Sidney  had  come,  and  she  turned  and  let  him  help  her 
from  the  carriage  and  take  her  where  Mrs.  Sidney  was  wait 
ing.  Donald  left  them  together,  saying  that  he  would  return 
in  a  few  minutes  to  put  Miriam  on  her  train. 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other  in  silence  with  inex 
pressible  thoughts  speaking  from  their  eyes. 

Miriam  was  recalling,  as  she  looked  at  the  steadfast  old 
face,  the  time  when  as  a  college  girl  she  had  watched  Mrs. 
Sidney  and  the  doctor  in  church  and  had  made  a  sketch  of 
them,  calling  it  "  Fate  and  Aspiration."  Now  she  was  seeing 
the  faith  and  the  humbleness  which  illumined  and  softened 
the  strong  features.  Her  heart  ached  with  the  unconscious 
pathos  of  the  sturdy  figure.  It  asked  so  little  and  gave  so 
much ;  it  had  lost  so  uncomplainingly  and  suffered  so  daunt- 
lessly;  it  had  struggled  so  faithfully  to  subject  its  head 
strong  instincts  to  the  law  of  gentleness  and  renunciation ; 
it  so  persistently  transformed  defeat  into  victory. 

When  at  last  Miriam  spoke,  it  was  half  the  artist  in  her 
that  said  the  words.  "  The  most  wonderful  thing  of  all,  Mrs. 
Sidney,  is  your  face." 

439 


440  THE    BALLINGTONS 

Miriam's  own  face  had  been  indescribably  changing  as  she 
looked  at  the  older  woman.  The  sternness  went  out  of  it, 
leaving  exposed  for  the  time  being  the  Miriam  whom  Agnes 
had  known.  It  was  a  self-unconscious,  spiritual  face  that 
looked  up  at  Mrs.  Sidney.  All  that  Miriam  had  meant  to 
say  was  leaving  her.  Mrs.  Sidney's  face  meant  victory.  It 
did  not  ask  consolation. 

Agnes'  mother  put  her  hardened  hand  over  Miriam's  beau 
tiful  one.  "  Miriam,  you  look  good.  Be  good,"  she  said 
earnestly. 

Miriam  felt  a  pain  in  her  throat. 

"If  he  smite  thee  on  one  c-heek,  turn  the  other.  If  he 
take  thy  coat,  give  him  thy  cloak  also!"  continued  the  un 
compromising  voice.  Miriam  saw  that  Mrs.  Sidney  meant 
the  words  she  had  quoted.  She  had  been  driven  step  by  step 
to  the  logical  conclusion  of  the  Christian  philosophy,  and  like 
her  Master  she  had  accepted  it. 

"  Take  up  thy  cross  and  follow  me,"  the  voice  went  on. 
"Did  you  ever  think  what  was  the  end  of  that  journey, 
Miriam?" 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Sidney  sigHecf  as  if  to  ease  the  tenseness  of  her  body, 
letting  it  relapse  as  she  did  so.  A  smile  whose  radiance  was 
not  of  this  earth  transfigured  her  face,  as  she  continued, 
"  But  after  the  agony  of  Gethsemane  and  the  cross,  we  shall 
see  the  great  white  throne,  and  there  shall  be  no  more  death, 
neither  sorrow  nor  crying,  neither  shall  there  be  any  more 
pain,  for  the  former  things  have  passed  away." 

Her  eyes  fell  to  the  lifted  face  of  her  daughter's  friend, 
and  her  smile  changed  and  became  one  of  human  warmth  and 
encouragement.  "It's  a  journey  of  love,  Miriam,"  she  said 
tremulously. 

"  To  the  strong  like  you,  who  make  it  so,"  Miriam  replied. 

Mrs.  Sidney  thought  a  moment  before  she  spoke  again. 

Then  she  began  to  speak  of  something  which  she  never  had 
expected  to  mention.  "  Something  happened  to  Agnes  be 
fore  she  died,  Miriam.  I  saw  that  as  soon  as  I  went  into  the 


THE    BALLINGTONS  441 

room.  I'd  seen  that  same  look  on  Stephen's  face.  When  I 
asked  her  about  it,  she  told  me  that  if  she  got  well  she'd  tell 
me,  but  that  there  was  no  need  for  me  to  know  if  she  should 
die." 

Miriam  did  not  say  anything. 

She  was  thinking  that  it  was  a  mercy  that  Mrs.  Sidney 
had  been  spared  the  truth,  when  the  old  lady  added  quietly, 
"  But  of  course  I  knew  what  it  was."  She  looked  keenly  at 
Miriam  and  asked,  "  Perhaps  you  know,  too  ?  " 

Miriam  did  not  trust  herself  to  speak.  She  saw  by  her 
friend's  face  that  Mrs.  Sidney  was  re-living  the  last  scenes 
in  her  daughter's  life,  and  Miriam  felt  a  hunger  to  live  them 
with  her.  "  What  was  the  look  you  mean  ? "  she  asked, 
forcing  herself  to  call  up  Agnes'  face  with  mortal  struggle 
upon  it. 

Mrs.  Sidney  seemed  to  have  been  waiting  for  the  question. 
"It  was  a  look  of  mighty  deliverance"  she  answered  in  a  full, 
triumphant  voice. 

Miriam  was  startled.  She  felt  herself  sustained  above  her 
grief,  as  she  had  been  lifted  when  she  first  saw  Mrs.  Sidney's 
face.  Then  she  remembered  that  Agnes  must  have  been  dying 
when  her  mother  arrived  and  that  the  look  her  mother  had 
seen  was  that  with  which  Agnes  met  death. 

"  I  knew  she  would  die  so,"  she  said  presently. 

"I  do  not  mean  death,  Miriam.  I  mean  incorruption  and 
power.  She  would  have  lived  on  so,  just  as  her  father  did, 
if  she  hadn't  had  heart  failure.  The  death  doesn't  matter 
one  way  or  the  other.  That  was  only  an  episode.  She  wasn't 
thinking  about  dying.  She  was  thinking  about  living." 

"Didn't  she  know  she  was  going  to  die?"  asked  Miriam 
in  surprise. 

"  She  wouldn't  give  up  hope  till  she  had  to.  Quinn  says 
he  never  saw  anybody  make  such  a  fight  for  life.  The  nurse 
asked  her  once  if  she  didn't  want  to  make  some  preparation 
for  the  next  world,  and  she  said,  no,  she  was  ready  for  that 
any  time,  but  that  we  must  concentrate  all  our  energies  on 
keeping  her  in  this." 


442  THE    BALLINGTONS 

"  Right !    She  was  like  you ! "  broke  in  Miriam  poignantly. 

Mrs.  Sidney  still  held  to  the  purpose  she  had  had  in  bring 
ing  up  this  conversation.  She  went  on,  undiverted  by  Mir 
iam's  cry: 

"  She  said  to  me  once,  '  I  have  just  learned  how  to  live, 
mother.'  That  seemed  to  be  why  she  most  wanted  to  get  well. 
But  when  Quinn  told  her  there  was  no  hope,  she  acqui 
esced." 

"  Death  meant  little  to  her,"  said  Miriam  gravely.  "  She 
had  fought  her  fight  and  kept  the  faith.  She  had  won  her 
point,  that  was  the  main  thing.  She  refused  to  compromise." 

"  That  is  so,"  assented  Mrs.  Sidney  thoughtfully.  "  She 
had  learned  to  accept  a  good  many  sorrows  and  at  last  she 
learned  not  to  fret  herself  because  of  evil-doers.  When  I  saw 
her  she  was  not  troubled  any  more  about  Ferdinand.  He 
that  is  unjust,  let  him  be  unjust  still;  and  he  that  is  right 
eous,  let  him  be  righteous  still.  She  had  no  more  to  do  with 
his  way  of  life,  Miriam,  than  I  have  or  you  have."  Mrs. 
Sidney  looked  at  Miriam  as  she  said  the  last  words,  and  then 
added,  "  The  way  to  live  is  to  be  holy.  Those  who  are  not, 
we  must  forgive,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do." 

The  whistle  of  the  train  was  heard  from  the  distance,  and 
a  plume  of  smoke  could  be  seen  nearing  them  from  round  the 
bend  of  the  road.  Both  women  rose. 

"Agnes  is  safe  now  and  happy,"  said  Mrs.  Sidney 
bravely,  "  and  when  one  has  accepted  all  in  this  life,  it  doesn't 
come  so  hard  to  accept  death.  She  did  the  very  best  she 
could  and  she  has  gone  to  her  reward.  She  had  some  troubles, 
but  a  good  many  good  things,  and  her  children  are  going  to 
grow  up  and  call  her  blessed.  They  will  have  their  troubles, 
but  what  is  their  mother  in  them  will  come  through  it  all 
the  way  she  did.  When  I  think  of  Stephen,  I  don't  think  of 
the  hard  times  he  had,  but  of  what  he  was,  and  his  daughter 
was  like  him." 

Miriam  placed  her  hands  on  Mrs.  Sidney's  shoulders. 
"  When  Agnes'  children  grow  up,"  she  said  earnestly,  "  they 
will  not  be  left  alone  to  struggle  with  their  father's  will.  You 


THE    BALLINGTONS  443 

and  I  will  tell  them  their  mother's  story,  and  her  death  will 
drive  the  story  home.  They  never  will  forget  what  I  shall 
tell  them.  They  shall  not  suffer  if  they  are  disinherited  of 
his  money,  which  is  all  he  has  to  give  them  and  which  he  will 
hamper  with  conditions.  I  can  give  them  enough,  as  their 
mother  would  give  it,  freely.  They  will  come  to  me  for  it, 
too — for  that  and  the  chance  to  live.  It  is  only  a  little  while 
to  wait." 

The  train  drew  into  the  station,  and  Mrs.  Sidney  saw  Don 
ald  coming  toward  them. 

"  The  last  words  Agnes  spoke  were  to  the  children,"  she 
said.  "  She  seemed  very  well  just  then.  I  heard  her  ask 
them  to  say  a  verse  after  her  and  to  remember  it  always  be 
cause  it  was  true.  She  said  it  twice,  and  Estelle  and  Stephen 
said  it  after  her.  '  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart  for  they 
shall  see  God.' " 

Miriam  stifled  a  sob. 

Mrs.  Sidney  had  one  more  thing  to  say,  and  she  said  it 
briefly.  "  You  are  a  good  friend,  Miriam.  God  bless  you  for 
it.  But  friendship  isn't  all  God  meant  women  to  have.  Re 
member  that  Agnes'  married  life  is  the  exception.  The 
doctor's  and  my  life  is  the  rule.  I  have  heard  that  you  have, 
said  you  will  not  marry.  Do  not  set  yourself  up  against  the 
laws  of  nature.  Nothing  but  trouble  can  come  from  it." 

Miriam  smiled  affectionately  at  her  companion.  It  pleased 
her  that  the  old  lady's  mind  continued  to  cope  with  other  peo 
ple's  difficulties  as  well  as  with  her  own.  Grief  had  not  broken 
her  down,  and  fortune  had  done  her  worst. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  she  said.  "Far  be  it  from  me  to 
set  myself  up  against  a  law  of  nature.  But  that  is  not  the 
only  law  of  nature." 

A  gleam  of  her  old  humor  came  into  her  eyes  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  changed  the  subject. 

She  put  two  envelopes  into  Mrs.  Sidney's  hand.  "  Donald 
will  explain,"  she  said.  "  One  of  them  is  for  your  nephew 
from  me.  The  other  is  from  Beatrice  to  Agnes.  She  sent  it 
by  me  and  I  know  Agnes  would  have  given  it  to  Fred.  I  be- 


444  THE     BALLINGTONS 

lieve  that  after  reading  these,  he  will  wish  to  see  his  wife 
again.  Then  I  shall  come  to  Kent." 

As  Mrs.  Sidney  glanced  down  at  the  letters,  bewilderment, 
then  relief  and  thanksgiving  unspeakable,  quivered  in  her 
face. 

"To  think  this,  too,  is  about  to  come  out  right!"  she 
said  brokenly.  "  Goodness  and  mercy  have  followed  me." 
She  could  say  no  more. 

Miriam  leaned  over  and  kissed  her  friend,  then  went 
aboard  the  train  with  Donald.  Mrs.  Sidney  waited  outside 
under  the  train  window. 

Donald  arranged  Miriam's  packages  for  her,  and  then 
handed  her  a  book.  "  Aunt  Margaret  found  this  book  lying 
open  in  Agnes'  room  and  gave  it  to  me  for  you.  It  must 
have  been  the  last  one  she  read." 

Miriam  recognized  the  volume  as  one  of  her  own  gifts  to 
Agnes,  and  accepted  it  silently. 

They  clasped  hands,  and  then  he  turned  and  left  her,  his 
eyes  wet. 

The  tears  were  in  Miriam's  eyes,  too,  as  she  leaned  from 
the  window  for  a  last  look  at  Mrs.  Sidney. 

"  God  bless  you,  Miriam — good-by,"  said  the  doctor's 
wife.  The  train  began  to  move.  "  I  shall  see  you  again  soon. 
Trust  the  Lord  and  put  your  faith  in  Him,"  she  continued, 
walking  along  by  the  window,  "  and  remember  this  about  all 
the  things  we  have  talked  of  and  things  we  haven't  talked  of, 
that  now  we  see  as  through  a  glass  darkly,  but  then " 

She  stopped.  A  mist  of  tears  clouded  her  eyes  and  rolled 
down  her  cheeks.  Miriam  saw  her  expression  change  into 
that  look  which  tells  that  the  well-beloved  has  gone.  There 
was  a  moment  of  wavering,  then  the  unconquerable  spirit  rose 
once  again,  resumed  control,  and  just  as  Miriam  was  losing 
sight  of  her,  she  called  after,  completing  her  sentence — 
"  but  then  we  shall  see  face  to  face ! " 

The  trees,  the  roofs  and  spires  of  Winston,  the  still  blue 
lake,  passed  out  of  Miriam's  view.  For  some  time  she  did 
not  change  her  position,  but  continued  to  look  through  the 


THE     BALLINGTONS  445 

window  at  the  green  world  below  and  the  blue  dome  over 
head. 

"  But  then  we  shall  see  face  to  face  ? "  she  repeated 
thoughtfully  to  herself. 

Her  eyes  dropped  to  the  book  Donald  had  given  her,  which 
had  fallen  open  in  her  lap.  Agnes'  pencil  marks  drew  her 
attention  to  the  page,  and  she  read  the  underlined  words: 
"  Here,  however,  I  touch  a  theme  too  great  for  me  to  handle, 
but  which  will  assuredly  be  handled  by  the  loftiest  minds, 
when  you  and  I,  like  streaks  of  morning  cloud,  shall  have 
melted  into  the  infinite  azure  of  the  past." 


The  work  of  a  genius.     A  story  that  will  live ' 


THE  BREATH  OF 
THE  GODS 


By  SIDNEY  McCALL 
Author  of  "Truth  Dexter" 

12rao.  Cloth,  431  pages.  $1.50 


A  'great  American  novel,  if  not  the  American  novel.  — 
New  Orleans  Times  Democrat. 

A  novel  that  has  the  real  Japan  in  it  as  has  no  other 
novel  ever  written  in  the  English  tongue.  —  Philadelphia 
Press. 

An  absorbing  love  story  that  throws  unusual  light  upon 
the  inner  life  of  Japan.  —  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

A  powerful  story  with  vivid  descriptions  and  a  thrilling 
and  unexpected  climax.  —  Boston  Herald. 

Strikes  an  unusual  note  and  will  live  beyond  the 
passing  hour.  —  St.  Paul  Pioneer  Press. 

A  masterly  delineation  of  men  and  women  caught  in 
the  swift  current  of  events.  —  Baltimore  Sun. 

Yuki  is  a  charming  characterization,  dainty,  exquisite, 
flowerlike,  and  fascinating. —  Chicago  Journal. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS,  BOSTON 
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Far  outside  the  common  run  of  ^fiction.  —  Dial,  Chicago 


THE  WOOD-CARVER 
OF  'LYMPUS 


By  M.  E.  WALLER 
Author  of  "  A  Daughter  of  the  Rich,"  etc. 

With  frontispiece  by  Chase  Emerson.    12rao.    311  pages.    $1.50 

A  strong  tale  of  human  loves  and  hopes  set  in  a  back 
ground  of  the  granite  mountain-tops  of  remote  New  Eng 
land.  —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

Hugh  Armstrong,  the  hero,  is  one  of  the  pronouncedly  high 
class  character  delineations  of  a  quarter  century.  —  Boston 
Courier, 

It  is  a  book  which  does  one  good  to  read  and  which  is  not 
readily  forgotten ;  for  in  it  are  mingled  inextricably  the  ele 
ments  of  humor  and  pathos  and  also  a  strain  of  generous 
feeling  which  uplifts  and  humanizes.  — Harry  Thruston  Peck, 
Editor  of  The  Bookman, 

A  few  books  are  published  every  year  that  really  minister 
to  the  tired  hearts  of  this  hurried  age.  They  are  like  little 
pilgrimages  away  from  the  world  across  the  Delectable  Moun 
tains  of  Good.  .  .  This  year  it  is  "The  Wood-Carver  of 
'Lympus."  ...  It  is  all  told  with  a  primitive  sweetness  that 
is  refreshing  in  these  days  when  every  writer  cultivates  the 
clever  style.  — Independent,  New  York. 

The  book  is  as  manly  as  "  Ralph  Connors,"  and  written  with 
a  more  satisfying  art.  —  Amos  R.  Wells,  in  Christian  Endeavor 
World.  

LITTLE,    BROWN,    &    CO.,   PUBLISHERS,   BOSTON 
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Mr.  Oppenheim's  Most  Romantic  Novel 


By  E.  PHILLIPS  OPPENHEIM 

Author  of  "  A  Prince  of  Sinners,"  "  Anna  the  Adventuress," 
"  Mysterious  Mr.  Sabin,"  etc. 

Illustrated.     309  pages.     12mo.     $1.50 


Of  absorbing  interest  to  those  who  love  a  story  of  action 
and  romance.  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

There  is  "go"  in  Mr.  Oppenheim's  tales.  —  New  York 
Sun. 

Shows  him  at  his  best.  — New  York  World. 

This  brilliant  imaginative  story,  with  its  buoyant 
humor,  clear-cut  characterization,  prodigality  of  inven 
tion,  tenderness  and  pathos,  is  on  many  accounts  one  of 
the  most  distinguished  works  of  fiction  of  the  year.  — 
Philadelphia  North  American. 

Strongly  drawn  and  thoroughly  interesting.  Forceful, 
convincing,  and  sustaining  in  interest.  —  Cincinnati  En 
quirer. 

The  girl  is  a  fascinating  creation.  The  hero  is  vigor 
ously  manly.  —  Pittsburg  Times. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS,  BOSTON 
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A  Romance  of  South  Africa 

ON  THE  FIRING  LINE 

By  ANNA  CHAPIN  RAY  and 
HAMILTON   BROCK  FULLER 

With  Frontispiece  \^mo.     $1.50 

In  this  fine  romance  of  love  and  war  Miss  Ray  has  a  wider 
field  than  she  has  compassed  before  and  strikes  a  deeper  note  of 
feeling.  The  events  take  place  in  South  Africa  during  the 
Boer  War,  and  in  local  details  Mr.  Fuller  has  given  valuable 
aid.  As  in  the  author's  other  books,  the  characters  awaken 
interest  because  they  are  so  human. 


By  the  Author  of  "A  Rose  of  Normandy" 

A  KNOT  OF  BLUE 

By  WILLIAM  R.  A.  WILSON 

Illustrated  by  Ch.  Griinwald.        izmo.       $1.50 

In  a  new  tale  of  absorbing  interest  the  author  of  the  success 
ful  * '  Rose  of  Normandy  ' '  has  faithfully  portrayed  feminine 
tenderness  and  sweetness  of  character,  and  at  the  same  time  has 
shown  that  a  work  of  fiction  can  have  for  its  motif  the  gratifica 
tion  of  personal  revenge  without  offending  the  highest  moral 
taste  of  the  modern  civilized  world.  "A  Knot  of  Blue" 
abounds  in  intrigue,  adventure,  the  joy  of  living  and  achieving, 
and  it  throbs  with  romantic  tenderness.  The  scene  is  laid  in 
Old  Quebec. 


LITTLE,    BROWN,  fc?  CO.,  Publishers 

BOSTON,    MASS. 


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